Short Stories

Confessions of an Honest Witness

2006-07-18T18:52:00.000-07:00

How often do we think ourselves as honest and responsible citizens contributing something good to the society apart from vegetative existence? In daily newspapers, enough information on corrupt politicians who poorly govern the country, incendiaries who almost rage a fire to conflagration, or ill treatment to women or young children causes rancor disconcerting us, yet as though it were all a dream, seldom are we incited into taking action as a conscientious men. That is what is really disturbing. However, while easily reasoning that acts of good can benefit a society, there was this time when I had an opportunity to be civil, to be the nice guy, and return favor to the society.

It was during the summer of 2005 when we were evicted from our apartment, a villa we had always boasted to our friends and acquaintances. We were evicted not because we were thieves or mischief-makers but for the fact that they were converting the two bedroom apartments in the complex into condominiums. The apartment was what you can call a visitor’s delight and in most instances drew attention from visiting guests who simply became transfixed upon gaining entrance when they saw the fountain in the front lobby or the attractive receptionist at the concierge desk. The elevators sometimes added to their envy for they were a source of perennial knowledge and every day, they promptly displayed a new word, its meaning, and an interesting piece of trivia.

The expulsion was as good as a death sentence and as helpless as we were we began our apartment hunt that resulted in a quick find not far from our place, in the neighboring street, another towering apartment complex inferior to the current one, but keeping mind its central location and ease of access, we signed the lease with heavy a heart sacrificing richness for prudence. With regards to the move-in, we contacted “Liberty Movers,” who said they would bring their own truck, normally after hiring from U-Haul or Budget, and all we were required to do was pack our belongings in boxes so that the movers could lift them and transport them to the new apartment.

August 18^th, a Saturday wasn’t a very hot day as a few scattered cirrus clouds welcomed the sun barely filtering its rays while a heavy layer of trees guarding the perimeter of our parking lot covered the truck keeping the ambience cool and comfortable. A knock at our door brought one of my roommates running to receive the movers while the other and I were actively involved in a game of poker. Upon opening the door, there strode in silently 3 muscular men, two African- Americans while the third seemed like a person of Arabic decent. One black guy was like a basketball point guard not very tall and barely 5-8 while the Arabic guy with dark circles beneath his eyes seemed disheveled in appearance and bore such an expression that one would immediately call his character into question. Even though they both covered three quarters of the entrance the third mover was still not quite disguised, for what stood behind them was 7-feet giant of a man who in spite of being flabby and disproportionate could overturn a Chevy blazer single-handedly.

With a booming voice as though from the depths of a well the giant offered his palms that were like the ends of a shovel greeting us while the other two trotted behind my friend as he took them to the first bedroom stocked with piled boxes. The movers walked around the house until their eyes adjusted and the short black guy looked around and said in a crackling voice, “We ain’t moving anything that ain’t packed buddy,” as we expected. “By the way, I am Chris and he is Shawn,” indicating to the giant, while the third turned out to be Mustafa.

And they began performing their task heaving sofas, shelves, beds, and the stacked rows of boxes into a dolly they had with them emptying three fourths of the house within an hour. If anything, I will never forget the dimpled face and a satisfied smile exhibited by the giant when he swung the 31-inch television like a colossal pendulum in a single hoist thumping his way across the corridor almost resembling a prehistoric creature. Tired as I was, wondering what made our movers indefatigable, I sat, started staring at the ceiling lost in daydream when my friend picked up “Satanic Verses,” and quickly achieved concentration, reading it for the nth time with rapt attention, what I found quite tormenting to go beyond the initial few pages. A clang however disturbed our self-absorption when Chris had carelessly lifted a box marked fragile onto his shoulders drawing an immediate scowl from the other roommate who began reprimanding the mover for his callousness.

Soon, an emerging conversation between me and my friend on Rushdie, Satan, Prophet, and Gabriel drifted to Islam, our voice raising and drawing nervous stares from the busy movers. Suddenly, A third distinct yet inquisitive voice seeming inclined to join the conversation interrupted our argument when we stopped and stared at the giant Shawn who poetically echoed a few verse from the Satanic Verses. I was stunned, my friend enthralled, as we eagerly welcomed him to our discussion and Shawn, we soon figured, practiced Islam and himself read the Satanic Verses a number of times. How often did we come across an educated or a religious person who didn’t think low of his job?

The afternoon passed cheerfully as two movers whistled and sang amongst themselves while Shawn between his heaves and hoists spoke what you may say words of wisdom enlightening, illuminating, and encouraging us such that we were all very upbeat and didn’t suffer the hardships people faced while shifting apartments. In our sense of well being, we gladly treated the movers with pizza and beer before settling for the bill and specially thanked Shawn, once again being reverential to his knowledge of the orient.

Hardly had we moved-in and enjoyed the new ambience when anxieties of the present caused me to take a peek at my bank balance I normally avoided partly out of fear and partly out of laziness. It certainly wasn’t fear of insolvency as an irrational paranormal phobia that one day I would open my web browser and see a negative balance amounting to delusional figures where only slaving to eternity would emancipate me from a horrific debt. Evidently, it had been close to a month since I checked my figures and upon opening my checking account, the illusory unexplainable anxiety was alleviated when humanly explainable figures caught my eye. However, it was when I was examining the checks I had issued in the course of the previous few weeks that I actually panicked for there were several checks, each bearing a variant of my signature clearly indicating forgery, totaling to a sum of 1,500 $. The bearers were “Willie Graves,” “Carlson Suites,” “Papa Johns,” and a few sources some unto whom I had never endorsed the checks while the others their names I had never heard of until then. Panicking, I ran to examine my blank non-issued checks when a sinking feeling entered the pit of my stomach. A whole leaflet of checks was missing.

Grappling with the receiver and cursing under my breath, the coiled telephone cord requiring a mind tranquilized by penance for unraveling its million knots, I feverishly dialed my bank while making a list of the false checks that had suddenly brought chaos into my otherwise quiet and idyllic life. I frantically explained to the congenial customer service representative in staccato on what happened while she patiently wrote down the incorrectly cashed check numbers calming my nerves saying such events were routine and if the back could determine with ease the checks were forged then it wouldn’t take long for the refund to take effect. I reacted to the situation with mixed feelings and whether I should have been furious with the bank for careless inspection before cashing checks or with myself for not taking care of my personal belongs carefully, I wasn’t sure. The evening was far from pleasant as I anxiously called all my friends explaining the situation while they tried their best to placate me not quite exactly sure how the problem would be remedied.

Fortune favored me for the bank official called me the next day, explaining the signatures were clearly forged, and apologized to me on behalf of the bank indicating it would refund the money within three business days. Upon asking how I should file a case and press charges, hoping the larcener would be easily nabbed, the bank official exhibited callousness, as though the bank didn’t have time for trifles, but in deference to my concern he suggested I register a complaint with the local police who would be glad to assist in bringing me justice. Of course, my emotions for the next hour were of glee as I thanked all gods for holding on to their probity and slowly as the jubilation wore off I realized I wasn’t the kind to be satisfied so easily. I decided to file a case and incarcerate the moon-faced swindler, knowing today’s world, its iniquities and stubbornness, especially towards harboring evil men who commit crimes of passion.

Being an avid fan of Arthur Conan Doyle, lying supine on my recliner, I furrowed my brows, arched both palms towards each other forming a triangle such that the fingertips met, and closed my eyes trying to concentrate, what Holmes often did while deducing his logic in crime solving. What would a detective first ask? Where do you keep normally your checks? And where did I keep them? Definitely not hidden underneath a trap door or in a locked drawer for I did not live in a castle or a mansion but a regular two-bedroom apartment. In a white plastic 3-rowed cabinet with wheels you could easily drag across the room, on the top shelf, was where I kept my leaflet of checks, not completely concealed and safe from an interloper who could rifle my contents in the event he found access to my apartment during my absence. It was always fun to play detective, especially when we were younger, but not when it came to reality when the first set of suspects that I could envision were all close friends, and I couldn’t even think of them stealing my books or CDs, let alone bank checks, for they possess what I’d call class.

The apartment had been unvisited from maids so far, owing to my cleanliness and simplicity, the door always being locked when I went places, and the management sure hired respectable plumbers or electricians who wouldn’t dare rummage through people’s private spaces. I was in my bed tossing and turning exhausted by an over analysis when came the greatest opiate to my aggravated mind – sleep.

Next morning, neither was I exactly in my bathtub when an idea struck me nor was I naked running out to the streets screaming Eureka, decorum being a second reason after the sub zero temperature outside that could have frozen my nuts. I was actually shaving almost cutting myself. Simple, all I had to do was examine the date when the checks were en-cashed and perhaps I would get a lead. I hastily toweled, ran to the computer and carefully examined the date the first stolen check was encashed. I saw a date of August 11^th, the third day after I moved into the new apartment, so what could that mean? Clearly, the theft has occurred on the new apartment and Lo! I got it. It was either that my check leaflet dropped out of the Truck while my boxes were being transported, something highly unlikely, or it was stolen by the movers who could have easily helped themselves the checks while moving my drawers. Satisfied, I was more confident on filing my case as I picked up the phone and dialed the cops, this time my mind more secure and composed when I punched in the numbers.

“Hi! I would like to report a theft, what occurred sometime during the early days of August, so let me begin by,” I started but was abruptly stopped by the officer on the other line. “Hold on sir, let me take down your information.” Sigh, how better are they than an AOL customer service I felt and what was annoying was when he was finished, I was informed that the officer would call me within the next couple weeks as they were overbooked with unsolved cases. But as excited as I was from that day on, eager to share every iota of information with the cops, wouldn’t I make them seem mere puppets? Especially when I would have masterminded their operation of smoking the thieves out of their holes? Would I be given special permission to accompany their plainclothesmen? Would they give me an undisclosed location or encrypted phone number where I can secretly communicate with a detective? How often does one get such an opportunity in this fast-paced yet vegetative life? Clearly, the theft was a blessing when I get to experience intriguing joy in life real-time, what my peers could only vicariously.

Finally, after 3 restless weeks just when my spirits were beginning to get dampened, when I started to feel cold to what I thought of the detective forces, when I was on the verge of being thankful that it was the bank that was involved and not I, I got a call from an officer by name of, “John Black.” “Hello, thanks for giving your introductions, I’d like to set up an appointment with you on the 4^th of October, so do you have your calendar free then?” he said and I groaned. It was 2 more weeks. However, I still didn’t give up, and informed I would be there. So on the morning of 4^th, to meet the 9.00 a.m. appointment, I rose early, nattily dressed, wore my black long trench coat, and stepped out into the chilly parking lot tying my cream scarf wishing I had a hat to get a complete feeling that I worked for Scotland Yard. Driving to DC that morning would have seemed a lofty thought, as it wouldn’t have been the Fairfax Police department, Vienna, where I was driving to but to the Edgar Hoover building, normally bustling with activity by secret agents and intelligent men who worked for the FBI.

From the time I cleared security check to the time I rose in the elevator, I was thrilled to hear exciting phrases from officers, agents, detectives you normally came across in crime movies or murder mysteries; “He did deserve solitary confinement,” “I almost knocked out his teeth when he sang,” “We might soon need to involve the CIA.” Having waited for 5 painful weeks, being seated for 45 minutes before the appointment could have seemed an eternity but I was visually entertained by the voluptuous receptionist sitting not far from my angle of vision, clad in what you may call a vulgar outfit for a person who held a respectable federal post.

When detective Black walked out and offered his hand, I was heartened, he looked every bit like a detective with sharp features, broad forehead, and deep-reasoning eyes that promised justice would be served, but it was his deep throaty voice that would send stray criminals, who escaped detection, scampering back to their mothers. “Mr. Black,” I began and recounted the events prior to the discovery of my embezzlement, the case of the missing checks like a skilled raconteur and I couldn’t help but notice him smile in awe while he took notes. After all, how often did he come across an energetic, positive, and an enthusiastic customer who eagerly shared his complaints instead of grieving on his misadventure?

“Intelligence tells me Mr. Black that I would first contact the moving agency to enquire the background of the three movers, their phone numbers, for it doesn’t take the work of a skilled jewel thief to steal my checks from an unprotected location.” I said, vividly describing the short black, the giant, and the Arab-like mover, I had failed to elaborate while briefing him the situation sometime before.”

Mr. Black said, “Interesting, I think your analysis is fairly clear making me believe the first set of suspects on my sheet would be the movers. However, I am fairly overbooked for the present moment so I have no option but to time slice my hours in my fairness to accommodate your case. But, I must say your help has been invaluable so far and the police force wishes to thank your observations.” He tore a printed signed sheet informing me that I must get in touch with the bearers and disabuse myself as a defaulter from their records while also advising me to re-evaluate my credit history.

The detective was kind as he chatted with me for some more time despite his busy schedule as I eagerly questioned him on petty crimes, whether it took time for them to convict burglars, whether the criminals were native to the crime scene, and how often did it result in murder or gore. However, no matter how insistent I was in involving me with the case, he seemed to indirectly answer that my services may not be required in hunting down the criminal as after all this wasn’t an act that would make a criminal walk down the green mile to his electric chair. He stood up shaking my hands letting me know I’d be updated frequently as the case progressed. I returned slightly disappointed knowing I wouldn’t be involved in any action that may lead to the arrest of the interloper.

During the following days, under the grips of emotions my mental state was what you can call precarious, sometimes positive when I thought the thief was already nabbed and grilled awaiting a notice from court, while on other times negative when I felt he lay hidden somewhere in the canyons of the West VA, completely underground and disguised making Mr. Black appear as foolish as George Bush. Nonetheless, I received no phone calls, intimation, mails or whatsoever, informing me on the progress of the case that slightly unsettled me. However, during parties or social gatherings when word spread around about my impending case, inciting an interest to friends or acquaintances, I seldom hesitated to give an eager account on what happened and where I stood. Sometimes as though it were a speech, I would painted a rosy picture on what I thought of honest citizens, our potent police forces, and depraved individuals who were illusioned to believing they could get away with their crimes undetected.

My patience was finally rewarded in the middle of November, one chilly Friday evening, in the mailroom. I swore while removing my gloves and inserted the keys into the letterbox, steeped with work-related anxieties completely oblivious to the impending case. Having no sympathies for credit card and newspaper companies, all 0% credit card invitations, coupons for papa johns, and home insurance policies were treated with abject indifference before being slam dunked into the trashcan. A yellow paper slip almost went unnoticed but luckily its perforations caught my eye when I bemoaned thinking it was a parking ticket or traffic violation but upon taking a second glance I exulted. Guess what it was? It was a subpoena, revealing the suspect had been caught and perhaps jailed. Yes, a subpoena, so finally I would be given a chance to speak the truth in the court of law. However, I did feel insulted for not having been consulted or involved during the process of arresting the perpetrator even though I was fairly sure of this consequence.

In that night of bacchanalia, I toasted to honesty, civility, and justice, some of friends to my eccentric behavior, while others to what they felt of me as, “Show off, or exhibitionist.” The next morning, I called Mr. Black who picked up and answered, “Oh yah, I am sorry, we couldn’t reach you before, I guess we caught the culprit and indeed, it was your mover, “Willie Graves. But I haven’t personally seen him, as I wasn’t involved when he was arrested. Yes, please come to court on the date issued on your subpoena.”

With my expectations duly satisfied, during the next few days I watched again movies involving court scenes such as, “Rainmaker,” “The Runaway Jury,” “Primal Fear,” revisited the crime and mystery sections of the public library picking books written by John Grisham, cases solved by Poirot or Perry Mason, feeling illuminated in the science of Jurisprudence. As I lay on the bed, amicable yet energetic thoughts filled me. What would the judge appear like? Would there be a jury? Wouldn’t it be nice to hear again the trite statement repeatedly worded on books “Has the foreman reached his verdict?” At the same time, controvertible and disturbing voices influenced me to drop the case and move on with my life. What made sure those guys wouldn’t try getting even with me? Was there a bigger gang? It didn’t end there but aggrandized to, maybe I would need to ask the FBI for a witness protection program. Clearly, my wavering emotions continued to pound me agonize me and soon I figured, however excited I was, only a denouement in the court of law would yield me closure and lasting peace. And then came the greatest opiate for a mind under the grips of emotions and what was it? Sleep.

The court date was set for the 11^th of December, a cruel time of the year when inclement conditions exacerbate every positive effort taken to remain cheerful but over all, I must say as the days progressed, I was keener and upbeat with the prospect of this court business, looking forward to the courtroom, its array of seats, the Judge’s pulpit, the witness box, and scores of men sitting on the chairs to witness the arbitration of the crime I was going to testify. December 11^twas a Saturday and my time was 2.00 pm so I had planned on taking half a day off.

Two slices of bread inserted between with Jalapeno cheese, a glass of chocolate milk, and two bananas were all I had for lunch before I pulled my car and drove towards the Fairfax courthouse as wisps of fog screened my windshields lowering my visibility. Making a right off chain bridge road, the drive on the inner roads was sinewy as the topsy-turvyed lane kept slowing and slowing in its speed limited, eventually climbing to a giant parking lot I presumed was meant for witnesses and court officials. The moment I entered, I regretted having worn the giant trench coat I had to remove before passing through a series of security checks but what was embarrassing was an apple my distrait hands placed on the counter while emptying my pockets, the disgruntled security official casting a reproving look. I was glad to throw it into the trash bin.

Collecting my watch, cell phone, keys and wallet, I whistled to the escalator and followed the crowd assuming there was an official at a higher level whom you could ask for directions inside the courthouse. The moment I exited the moving stairs, a sudden flash of exuberance enveloped me, almost euphoric when I saw a scene I could only have imagined but not experienced in real life as businessmen with gold watches and attaché’ cases animatedly gesticulated to their lawyers perhaps encouraging them to end the case with a settlement, intelligent and bright faced graduates from Harvard or Yale and now lawyers patiently listening to their clients, a felon in an orange jump suit was chained and dragged by policemen as though he was a tamed but wild elephant. My head was turning 360 degrees surveying the scene relishing every moment while subconsciously my legs ambled towards the official in a kiosk located in the center of the building, what you may call a help desk.

Since whether I am in a drug store, book store, grocery store, or in a convention, instinctively as though navigated by a sixth sense I would know what to do next and never stand there looking nervous, confused, or restive ready to grab an onlooker or the secretary at a help desk and belabor them with a fusillade of unnecessary questions. As smart as I was, I figured a small wooden glass case framed to the wall onto my right where a white chart with typed names stood pinned, was the first place I must visit. Taking hardly a second to figure, I discovered the names sorted under different times, my case being at 2.00 pm, were the list of people present to attend or testify my case. With a lazy eye I hastily scanned the roster hoping to catch my name without having the need to read the whole list but missed on the first attempt. A few more attempts however proved futile. Consequently, I was forced to accept defeat and walk to the kiosk, a red-haired secretary sitting behind giving me a beaming smile as though expecting my presence and ready with answers. Her cheeks flabby and eyes sunken, she was doodling with her pencil and chewing something sizeable inside her mouth.

“Hi! I am here for the 2.00 pm case, the one on larceny. I was wondering why name is not on the roster at the glass shelf there?” I asked pointing to its direction underscoring that before turning to her succor, I had indeed stood there for a while trying to figure why my name wasn’t there. She made a grave face and asked, “May I ask for what has the court indicted you?”

“No, you’re mistaken, I am here to testify so why isn’t my name there?”

“Not unless you want it there. It lists the criminals whose case we represent today,” she said smiling, my cheeks turning red with discomposure.

“You’re not the first,” she tried reassuring me as I hastily pulled my subpoena to show her the name of the criminal with hopes of hastily defusing the embarrassing situation and when I spotted “Willie Graves” typed in poor ink I rebuffed as though, “Of course, I could have figured if you had given me one more minute,” and ran back to the glass case as she cast me an imploring look. I don’t wish to explain the condition of my nerves then when I failed to locate “Willie Graves,” during my returning visit to the glass shelf and with drooping shoulders I went back to the lady at the counter.

At the counter however, a transformation occurred favoring me, perhaps only emotionally but not pragmatically, when I learnt my case was postponed to the 26^th December, the Boxing Day, explaining why the defendant’s name was not in the roster. While the lady was apologetic that the court had not sent me the adjournment and grieved for causing me distress, I held a high air superciliously giving her the impression that it was she who was a fool but not I, before realizing, the delay not only meant visiting the court again but also that my vacation was going to be spoilt. I was grounded at VA and could not take off anywhere for Christmas Holidays. However, in situations where rectitude and uprightness are called forth, sacrifices cannot be evaded to achieve a meritorious feat, so what if I lose my holiday, as long as I don’t lose my honor, I could feel unshakable. But I wasn’t sure if I really felt honored or miserable that night.

It was a white Christmas that year and my company’s eccentric policies mandated that we either finished our vacation that year or squandered it for it resets with the advent of every New Year. I had 7 days, and those 7 golden days plus Christmas holidays was a complete waste that year to the eyes of a hedonist but I maintained my aplomb, spending Christmas day in the deserted mall accompanied by my friend who despite having nothing at hand to feel civil, was equally upbeat as I was, adding to my displeasure. By logic, shouldn’t he be upset? The sequence of events preceding my entry to the court repeated on the 26^th, the day being relentless in its sub zero conditions, the road icy, and traffic slow.

No sooner I entered than I made a beeline to the roster and spotted “Willie Graves,” in my first attempt and when my eyes endeavored to pick the red-haired lady at the kiosk, I saw a bearded bespectacled gentleman whose importance I didn’t really need. Bravely, I marched to the court room on the second floor, its corridor not as wide as what I saw in the movie “Devil’s Advocate,” when Keanu Reeves skids and runs through the stairs. Outside, the condition was what you could call a bedlam with a lady trying to soothe her crying infant, two kids fighting over what seemed a partially opened chocolate, a Spanish woman noisily dramatizing an incident to eager listeners. I shook my head and hoped for better conditions inside as I focused on what I would say when called for the witness box, for lying under oath is not only perjury but also blasphemy for a reverential man like me. I was sure the defendant’s judge would try to steer me away with subterfuge but I wasn’t to be led a way so easily after witnessing numerous trials, albeit vicariously. It started getting crowded and hot by quarter to 2.00.

When the doors finally opened, my initial reaction was awe as what caught my eye first was a pulpit behind which stood firm the United States flag, onto its right side was a statue of what I reckoned was Thomas Jefferson, while two old paintings of the civil war were framed behind where I presumed the Judge would sit. Then when my eyes focused better, I rather felt rather disillusioned, for the room wasn’t ask big as I had envisioned, perhaps something like court trials shown in old Alfred Hitchcock’s movies in small towns. The place started flooding with people and I dared not idling around but find a place to sit in what might be an important case for the county of Fairfax. Larceny wasn’t meant to be lightly taken. I smiled to satisfaction upon seeing so many people actively taking in part in the affairs of the government in its attempt to bring justice, but most importantly, it gratified me a lot as it was my case. I spotted detective Black animatedly talking to somebody in the front, perhaps the defendant’s lawyer, and when he turned and saw me, he gesticulated me to come down. Apparently, he did turn out to be the defendant’s lawyer who thanked me for coming, the tribunal protocols confusing me slightly as I returned to my seat. Why did he thank me, didn’t he want to win the case? That was weird.

Just as the court room started to quieten, I got a rude shock of my life, for standing in the front, with who I thought was his mother, along with the defendant’s lawyer, was smiling a man clad in a navy blue two piece suit, impeccably ironed white shirt, and red spotted tie, whose relative size in comparison to other mortals in the court room maybe termed behemoth. Unmistakably, he was one of my movers, Shawn, the person well versed in satanic verses who lifted my television single-handedly. Scared out of my wits and bewildered, I shrank back disappearing from his line of vision wishing I had remained undetected. What is a defendant doing here? Shouldn’t he be in a jump suit handcuffed? Was he granted a bail? But why dress in a suit when you’re a victim of a lowly crime? My impression of him as an intellectual, reverential, and illuminated personality all went down the drain but at that point I was more concerned on how to save my teeth from being bashed. Soon, I lost my mind and felt numbed as events were unfolding.

There was pin drop silence, myself deep in thought, when entered through a door to the side of the pulpit, a bespectacled scholarly man, with deep creases on his forehead, and smiling countenance who I could have easily guessed as a scientist, had his flowing black robes and domineering glace not betrayed the fact he was a judge. Where was his gavel? His assistant, I assumed the foreman, said, “The court shall come to order,” a relatively strange way to silence the courtroom I felt from what I knew of how the court used to tap the gavel and say “order” thrice. The judge called out to a lawyer whom he addressed as public prosecutor whose opening sentences was as good as, “Wassup man,” or “Mate,” when words of veneration, “May I speak your honor,” failed his mouth. Where was the jury, had they failed to show up or were they already dissolved?

During the following moments, after repeated events of public prosecutor introducing cases completely unknown to mine followed by different defendant lawyers, representing different defendants, giving their overtures, it dawned to me that I was a fool. What came to light, not as fast a flash of brilliance but slow as how the sun rises, was the illumination that there were several cases simultaneously being arbitrated, the different people present for their respective cases, while I realized I was the only one present for mine. How could I have been a fool illusioned to imagine a case on a petty theft would amount to something as large as the trial of Jack Ruby or O. Simpson, involving a grand jury?

In order to educate a confused reader, if any, I shall endeavor to explain how court cases are solved in petty courts. The public prosecutor handles cases of misdemeanor whom you may also call plaintiffs who back the police, detectives, or plainclothesmen, who arrest firebrands, interlopers, larceners, or drug traffickers in the name of law. Normally, cases against them are strong so a single public prosecutor can initiate multiple cases while for each defendant there is a separate lawyer, sometimes a lawyer could also handle two cases depending on its enormity.

Thus, with folded hands, I tried patiently watching lawyers being called along with their defendants who most easily confessed their crimes, some having resorted to recidivism, while others confessed their nefarious act of vandalism, hooliganism, or thefts. Who could have imagined a young girl, 16 years of age, bespectacled with the look of an innocent librarian, and accompanied by her lawyer could have shot her neighbor? Well, after enduring an hour of several unresolved cases, and in between a 30 min break given by the judge, I was approached by Mr. Black, and the defendant lawyer who called me aside, thanked me for coming, and said Shawn, the thief was ready to sign a confession upstairs and my presence wasn’t warranted unless I wished to stick on. I was glad to get the hell out of there. Mr. Black said my checks were issued by Shawn to other people who returned favor such that they all took a cut, not to mention their involvement in drugs.

Although, I was glad to get back and forget the episode as a long forgotten memory, I had unwittingly opened a can of worms. Our benevolent Shawn worked in a team, so as more arrests occurred, I was issued more subpoenas, in all coming to a sum of 5 more court visits. I was tired and if at all I despised anything, in all probability, it was the courtroom. It took some time for the nightmares where Shawn set fire to my car after chaining me, or clipped my balls with a pair of clippers, or fed me to a grizzly somewhere in the Dakotas, to disappear but I am proud to say I didn’t seek treatment but endured my suffering patiently. Neither was I cornered and clubbed with a baseball bat nor was I bashed in a derelict neighborhood so I presumed Shawn and his cronies were all safely locked up in the Alcatraz.

Approximately, a year after my tribulations, when my mind had finally grown healthy, who would have imagined I would be struck from behind by a crazy drunk on a sultry night while I was driving from Philadelphia to Exton surviving a near-fatal accident? I was unconscious for two days with no external wound apart from a broke jaw. The driver who escaped unhurt was the son of a rich industrialist and was below 18. Just as I was getting discharged from the hospital, a nurse escorted me a visitor who turned out to be the rich man. Pleasantries were exchanged and he enquired my condition. As I wondered what he was doing here, he started,

“You know, in my line of business, it is very essential I maintain a certain lifestyle so that I keep the deserving respect I have hard earned all these years, what one could dissipate within moments if not careless. People of unsavory reputation are sitting tight to get an opportunity and destroy my unsullied reputation.”

I retaliated, “I don’t understand where the thread of this conversation is leading to.”

“I shall come to the point. Knowing the extent of physical and mental agonies my son’s foolish teenage instincts has caused you, please accept my deepest apologies. Since he is not 18 years of age, you’re eligible to file a libel and sue me for damages.”

“So what is it you seek?” I asked.

“An out of court settlement.” He said

The Curious Incident of a Salesaman in the Day Time

2006-01-28T13:19:00.000-08:00

Sometimes, you hate your job so much that you’ll wonder when you can quit, or retire, and go fishing in Maine. On any good day, stress is something you normally cannot perceive, how it might affect you, which on a bad day will make you wonder why on earth you never thought about it before and took precautions. It was during one of those frustrating weeks that I called my friend, my former roommate, and said I’ll be visiting him that weekend, on a small retreat to refresh myself, so that I could return and work with full enthusiasm.

In Downingtown PA, a suburb of Philadelphia, my friend was working as a consultant with IBM and was given to stay a giant mansion, owned by his boss’ company, so that his boss could save money on per diems and hotel expenses. His kitchen contained a deck overlooking a spectacular view that comprised of a canopy of Oak trees, Elm trees, and other needle shaped trees whose branches intertwined and permeated the surroundings forming a densely wooded region. A few feet down the road there was a lake, which offered a variety of recreational activities including wind surfing and kayaking. Considering he is a software engineer who earlier shared a single bedroom apartment with friends, this unexpected placement on his new project was undoubtedly a windfall.

“How was it this week?” My friend asked.

“It is the same trouble with sales people.”

The stress that I was experiencing was not because of an irate customer or an overweening boss. In some small companies, like mine, there was a very thin line separating marketing and sales division where one could easily mistake them to belong to the same department and in fact you could even consider customer service department as a part of the family. In most circumstance, they lacked foresight and could never get the correct specifications from customers. Worse, for some products, there was no such thing as “Marketing Research.” Engineering was constantly in battle with the sales-marketing-customer service department and while we blamed them for providing improper specification, they blamed us for failing to deliver products on time.

If I had the power, I would lay my finger right in the beginning at marketing when they submit the Marketing requirements document (MRD) and ask us to write the Engineering Specifications. It is after strictly adhering to the MRD, without a cerebral approach of challenging marketing and using intelligence in finding out what exact application the customers is, are products badly engineered. What was once conceived an orangutan at the time of its inception eventually turns out into a mongoose upon completion of the product. And you’re forced to reshape the mongoose into an orangutan in a matter of two weeks. No doubt god is the greatest engineer - He doesn’t have a salesman.

My friend had been patiently listening for the past few minutes. “Therefore, I conclude, a salesman becomes a salesman because he has tried everything else in his life and eventually becomes so after realizing his life is a failure.” I said vehemently.

My friend retaliated, “That conclusion might be a little lame. I don’t think bigger organizations allow the fundamental flaw you are witnessing – improper specifications. I have been in this project 3 months, already, and we still haven’t begun designing. We are still negotiating and will not budge until we have exactly nailed down the exact requirements.”

Emotionally drained, I slightly digressed, “You may not have the brightest education, you may not be exceptionally smart, and worse you may still have a tendency to slacken in your job. But all it takes to be a salesman is being highly articulate in delivering your sentences and the capacity to quickly flash all your teeth faster than an alligator.”

My friend chuckled, “I wonder what you’ll remark at a used-car salesman.”

“I’d be delighted to find an educated salesman, one who is honest with a good sense of work-ethic, whose consciousness is fixed on the success of a company and not on devising easy money making schemes”

My friend’s lackluster response evinced when he abruptly changed topics, “If you notice, I don’t have a washing machine and a dryer, so we need to go to home-depot the first thing tomorrow morning before we venture into any recreational activity,” he said in a stern tone.

We drove to home-depot the first thing next morning. Right from where you park your cars up to where you enter the Mall we could see constant activity and the place was thronged by all kinds of people. While a young lady in Honda Accord honked at a pedestrian who dropped her purse and stooped down to pick it up, another noisily dragged her cart stuffed with a couple dozen-tissue rolls and sweatshirts precariously dangling from the front end. A huge black guy spanked his daughter right in the middle of the driveway while a Mustang failed to stop at any of the “Stop Signs.”

A middle-aged gentleman was tottering as he tried balancing himself with enormous quantities of groceries in plastic bags, he hand-carried, that would have been charged with excess baggage had he been in the airport while his wife was marching ahead in the lead. It was a deplorable sight indeed. While his eyes were bloodshot, making me guess he had reveled at a late night party leading him to experience a lack of proper sleep, I could see anguish in them as he was being mercilessly tormented on a Saturday morning into doing chores by his wife. Aha! Get married and life becomes smooth, does it? I gloated. Despite the chaos that prevailed in our vision, our eyes eventually focused and we realized that the dense swarm we were seeing was actually pouring in and out of Sam’s Club, and not Home Depot, which seemed relatively desolate.

We marched into the giant doors of the grand Home Depot, which had an expansive interior, more like a warehouse, with aisles flanked by huge purchase items that would make Wal-Mart seem like a 7-eleven. Everywhere, surrounding us, were woodwork, interior decor, home appliances, garden tools, cleaning brushes, hammers, nails, refrigerators and while on the outside the store didn’t quite look crowded, the inside was fairly populated and we could see people everywhere.

“Hey man, step aside,” I heard a voice and I turned to see a trolley containing a couple ice makers that were being single-handedly dragged by a tall blonde man clad in jeans. His biceps were wider than my thighs. Directly in front of me was an Asian key-maker whose primary job was duplicating keys and his back was facing us as the thrust in the customer’s key into a machine, attempting to create a suitable duplicate. Rumbling sounds from hacksaws, high pitched shrieks from a drilling device, different vibrations resounding from mechanical devices, and the surrounding din, presented a cacophony of sounds which weren’t that unpleasant to the ears.

We turned left and walked as we saw lanes of people standing waiting to finish their purchases and get out of the store. A cute Latino whose pretty lips were making funny shapes as she spoke to a customer at the cashier’s counter invited my stares and my glance slowly shifted to her neck when a voice from a throat that seemed like it was treated with sulfuric acid shook my wits. Upon recollection, I recalled that it seemed like that of Dikembe Mutombo’s. Before we could get lost in the seemingly huge maze inside the store, I stopped short beside a customer service personnel and was about to ask, “Excuse me, where are the washers and dryers?” when I decided against, for his countenance displayed such annoyance that any question I asked would have drawn an immediate scowl.

We eventually located the place where they stocked washers and dryers and found a few on the display with price tags on plaques that displayed the manufacturer, model number, and the price. Looking around, we noticed a bald man sitting next to a computer with his back to us entering something on a pad he had on his hands and as we called him, he wheeled around and stood up to shake hands.

“I’ll join you momentarily, sir,” he said to my friend.

In the interim, we looked around for a few minutes and my friend quickly decided a washer and a drier. It was relatively easy – they were the cheapest ones in the store.

From behind the rows of stacked boxes, approached towards us an oriental salesman with spectacles that covered the majority of his face, his eyes seemingly huge through the convex lens. His temples were covered with graying hairs while his fatty cheeks were hairless and patched black in a few places. He had a slight paunch that was well hidden by his loose light blue Denim shirt. Were it not for the fact that he looked Chinese, I would never have guessed his age as somewhere in the sixties.

“Are you being helped?” He asked us in squeaky voice with a drawl but intelligible accent.

“Well, the bald gentleman in shorts was here a few minutes ago but now he has disappeared.”

“I’d be delighted to help you.”

“We just explained to him that we have selected a washer and dryer and would therefore like to complete the formalities and the billing.”

“I can help you,” he said and walked with us to examine our purchase.”

He took with him the plaque displaying the manufacturer, price, and model number of the washer and dryer and walked to his computer where he opened the billing software. Patiently, letter-by-letter he entered the model number and made sure there were no errors. I became a little frustrated and impatient as I was getting hungry and wanted to get the hell out of there as quickly as possible. While the system identified the model number of the washing machine it could not recognize the dryer and as he continued in his attempt to successfully enter the values for the third time I was beginning to get seriously annoyed. What an idiot, I thought, the computer isn’t going to change its mind if you keep retyping the wrong number. If it doesn’t recognize, it doesn’t.

In the meantime, my friend was distracted and was going through the specification of another model and I really hoped he wouldn’t change his mind, especially with the seemingly not so sharp salesman taking hours to complete a simple transaction. I wondered how people at the cashier counter in the grocery store would treat him had he worked there. Soon, he asked me to summon my friend and told him that the dryer wasn’t listed in their system requesting him to consider the other model situated next to the one he had chosen and manufactured by G.E. My friend agreed since they were the same price – 299$. As he was about to enter the new number, he suddenly turned around and said,

“Now that you’ve chosen a G.E drier, why don’t you go for a G.E washer? Maybe buy them as a pair. So that you get better benefits with warranty.”

Although my initial reaction was that of exasperation, I reconciled with the fact that my friend wouldn’t take long to decide and in fact he immediately nodded to the salesman who went back to delete the first transaction and spent the next five minutes entering the second while I impatiently made circles with my foot unwilling to tie my shoe laces.

“Sir,” he meekly said.

“I have entered the purchases into the system and let me go them over with you one by one.”

God! We aren’t buying a Lexus RX-300 with customizations I thought almost throwing up my hands in despair, my stomach growling.

He pointed to the screen and said, “Up here you are currently viewing the model number and the price. Is that acceptable?”

“Yes.”

“Do you find the default one-year warranty desirable or would you take an additional two year warranty for 59.99$?”

I spoke for my friend and said, “no we just need the default warranty,” asking my friend how often he saw them being repaired.

“A power cord to connect your washer and drier to the A.C mains that are 15.00$ each.”

Before I could intervene, my friend said yes.

I thought that was instant robbery, it never costs that much. I had tons of them lying around in my work place and I would have gotten him a couple but before I could advise against my friend accepted and I was too tired to argue or worse, make the salesman reenter the data into his software. They must make it a rule for people to own PCs in their house so that they don’t make a mess of themselves outside and also waste people’s time. Or stores ought to spend some extra time training the salesman before they are on the job, I thought.

Finally, I was glad that he was going to click his mouse on “Calculate,” when he stopped and began reading the terms and regulations. Oh my god! This was worse than Sprint PCS customer service, I wailed. Another minute, I would have told my friend to wait in while I’d rush to the nearest Chinese take-out and order spicy tofu with fried rice and a large coke. At last the papers were being printed in his private printer, which was a totally waste I thought, and he turned back and smilingly addressed us, “Namaste.”

I couldn’t control myself and began laughing. Why would you greet someone at the end of a transaction and worse, he was a salesman, who definitely ought to know that by virtue of his occupation.

I replied, “Nee Howma!”

He laughed, “There you go, I guess we are familiar with our customs.”

At last the transaction was over and knowing we could leave shortly my anger eased when he requested my friend to replace the plaque onto top of the washer and dryer where they were present originally and while he rushed off, I asked him if he were from China – a redundant question.”

“I am from Hong Kong actually, but been here for many years.”

“Why on earth would you be in a small town rather than in a big city like New York where you had better opportunities?

“Well! My children went to school here,” he said.

“Oh Nice, was it Penn?” I asked recalling University of Pennsylvania wasn’t far from there.

“No Penn State, actually.”

“That is great. How many children do you have and did they all go to Penn State?”

“I have three. Yes, all went to Penn State. While my two sons obtained their degrees in Computer Science and Mechanical Engineering, my daughter received her’s in Aerospace.”

“Wow! That must make you proud, especially after emigrating from Hong Kong, if you could provide them with quality education.”

“Yes, they are bright too and studied with scholarships.”

No wonder he was able to afford their fees working in home depot I concluded.

“Actually, similar to your children even I am an Engineer, an Electrical Engineer, and currently work in the telecom industry.”

“Oh that’s good, that’s good, so you work for cellular phone companies, VOIP systems, or what exactly is your job?”

“Not really, I don’t design microelectronic circuits,” and gave a brief account of my job trying to best explain in layman terms, in salesmen language, so that he understood.

What about you? Have you been a salesman all throughout and have been in working in home depot? Or were you working elsewhere, in a different profession?” I asked. He took a minute before answering, probably not sure how to phrase his answer I reasoned and wondered if he was actually shy to explain his occupation.

“Well, I am actually an Electrical Engineer too and a professor in Penn State. I got my PhD in E.E during the year 1970,” he said and smiled.

I swayed for a second and almost fainted feeling as though he dropped an anchor in my mouth and I can’t describe the effect it when it landed in my stomach. I stood speechless and shaken when my friend returned.

“He isn’t just a salesman,” I replied weakly.

“He has a PhD in E.E”

“What?” He echoed but recovered quicker than I did and thought he was wise in discerning that due to a bad market this gentleman was perhaps laid-off.

“Is it due to a bad market, you’re working here?” He asked sympathetically.

He smiled, “Actually, I run my own company,” and he opened his wallet and flashed his business card. Printed in bold pink letters, was the name, “Dr. Woo,” and the name of his company.

That was when I badly felt ashamed. I had been stripped of all pride and felt worthless. The situation I was facing was beyond comprehension.

“I understand it is hard for you to believe as I don’t like discussing my private life while I work here.”

“But why do you work here? Earlier I thought you were a retired professor, but now since you say you have your own job, why would you work here?”

“I am an old man and my wife takes care of our grand kids and baby sits them over the weekend. It is my understanding over the years that happiness doesn’t come from who you are but from what you do. There are three other salesmen who work in the same store who all have their PhDs and there are two more doctors. I was told it enables them to get a good quote on insurance,” he said and chuckled.

I am now glad he taught me, rather warned me to be careful on how I judge people, or better, teaching me not to judge anyone.

“What is the nature of your research,” I asked as his humble testimony had piqued my curiosity.

“Well, my research broadly focuses on power systems – for example, modern day lap tops contain redundant power when you yank the cord and sustain themselves for a while. Why not do the same thing on refrigerators and microwaves?”

“Wow! You mean build some juice so that they last when there is loss of power? I enquired enthusiastically both out of interest and with hopes of disabusing my earlier behavior.

“Yes, in fact, I wrote a proposal recently to NSF to bring in some research grants and underscored the fact that the process will not be more expensive than modern day AC-DC converters and at worst, it’ll be the same cost.”

“Great,” my friend said.

“But, NSF thought otherwise and scuttled the idea. It is during such matters that they get political man. Which flourishing industry would let a new technology supplant theirs?”

I sympathized with him and said, “It is remarkable that you’re continuing research and I have great admiration for scholarly people,” I said.

“Well, when I was of your age, I used to admire professors and researchers who worked with zeal. But over the years, it is sad that the ones who are most admired are the ones who bring in most research grant and fund most students but not the ones who work passionately without expecting rewards.”

He further said how he had been an Assistant professor for many years and how he eventually turned into a professor and all along I couldn’t help praising his humility.

“I think that’s it, you don’t pay here, but at the cashier’s counter.” He said.

“Thank you Dr. Woo, I am glad that there are such humble people around.” I said.

We stumbled out of the store too shaken and didn’t begin a conversation for the next half hour being humbled

The contents of this story are true but slightly decorated, especially emotions, to make it more interesting to read –licensed embellishments, as authors claim.

The Never Ending Journey

2005-08-17T09:00:00.000-07:00

One early summer evening, I got down from my uncle’s white Maruti Esteem and ran to the trunk to pull out my baggage with hopes of not getting drenched. The whole afternoon had been incessantly raining and visibility was still low. With a heave I quickly hoisted my brownish yellow nylon carry-on bag, with two extra side zips and a retractable handle, over my shoulder and curled my fingers around the handle of the large dark-green leather suitcase standing on the floor that was scratched all over owing to its past travel. As I waved my uncle farewell and ran in, I peered at the clock through the smog and discerned that it was 5.15 pm at the New Delhi railway station.

Inside, a pot-bellied grey-haired porter, with white stubs jutting from his unshaven face and hands that were roughened by his profession, ran towards to me, hurriedly buttoning his red shirt. He was also oscillating like a penguin due to his overweight. From his worried face, I could discern that he wanted to beat the others in closing a neat evening business deal that could probably fetch him dinner and a bottle of alcohol that night - his red-eyes and pot-belly was suggestive enough that he delighted himself frequently with alcohol. We settled for an amount not so much an extravagant indulging as a satisfactory expense – After all, I could have carried the luggage myself without help.

“Hang on, I am traveling from New-Delhi to Calcutta by Rajdhani Express. Let me see the platform number,” I told him and we halted besides the departure board.

“I know sahib, its on platform number three,” he replied knowing it by the top of his head, routinely being accustomed to dealing with passengers going to different locations.

There it was, Rajdhani Express - platform number 3, I thought. As we walked on, I inhaled the musty smell emanating from the dank walls that wafted with the breeze. Surrounding me were a number of passengers hurrying to find their compartment. As I gazed here and there, I was momentarily captured the fading image of a caged parrot entering a compartment but before I could identify its breed clearly, its master and the cage disappeared inside.

“How is business, I hope you find enough passengers daily.” I said

“No sahib, not really. With the economy doing well, many are affording airline travel and the number of porters in the station has risen. Further, growing older, I am no longer able to regulate and control the younger guys in order that everyone gets a fair share of passengers.”

Caught unawares, I was seized by a horrible stench when we had barely passed a basket of fish waiting to be loaded into the luggage van. I had nearly a mile to cover with 10 coaches ahead of me and began dreaming about my imminent visit to my aunt who was an exceptional cook and on whose back yard one could tirelessly play with her beagle Mercury. It was more than 5 years since I traveled by Indian Railways and all along I had longed for such a journey. When I was young I used to treat every train travel like a cruise, simply liking everything involved with train; the look of the diesel engine, the yard where tracks interweaved, and the food. I seldom ate what I carried and often gave them to a beggar and blessed him with some wholesome home-prepared food. My dreamy thoughts were interrupted when a lady ahead of me shrieked and jumped, when she narrowly escaped being run over by a trolley, carelessly driven by a railway official.

Coach A6 at last, I thought and scanned through the reservation chart pasted on the door in order to ensure I had a window seat. Until so far not having had the luxury of traveling by air- conditioned coaches, I was really excited this time and was looking forward to enjoying my journey in a fully air-conditioned Rajdhani express. Entering the compartment, I located my berth and pushed my luggage beneath the lower berth. When I tipped the porter, there was a smile on his countenance and after his exit I lazily stretched and noticed that I was amongst the first few to board the coach. Feeling stuffy, I turned on the fan and it wasn’t working. Whether coaches were air-conditioned or second class, I concluded fans most likely needed an extra push with a comb or a pen to move them from their state of inertia. Outside the window, a fat elderly woman single handedly dragged a huge trunk and yelled at her three children as they zipped past my compartment.

As I sat a middle-aged gentleman with trim moustache and lean frame pulled his small briefcase and shoved it beneath his berth, opposite mine. He wasn’t wearing spectacles as such and his outfit seemed to indicate he was from a city and I took a shot that he might be an engineer. While I continued studying him, he sat opposite me and smiled.

“Traveling light, huh?” I began

“Yah for a small business meeting and I’ll be returning the day after. By the way, my name is Ramlal. So…”

His voice was momentarily dampened when a porter in the adjacent compartment yelled a string of invectives to a pot-bellied passenger who I assumed was a peasant from the way he spoke and chewed tobacco.

“Such language,” Ramlal chuckled.

I introduced myself when a cute short girl with pigtails and braces walked into the compartment with her mom, who undid their luggage onto the side berth to the right of the aisle. Remotely resembling the character Margaret in Dennis the Menace, the kid pushed her spectacles up the bridge of her nose and settled with a book titled, “The Weary Potter,” while her mom dabbed beads of perspiration forming on her face. While the kid’s teeth were well aligned by her braces, her mom’s lacked symmetry - her protruding teeth that could carve a coconut.

“So Ramlal, how long have you lived in Delhi? I guess you must enjoy the luxuries of the capital city,” I said.

“Yes, been there my entire life.”

“What about you? Where are you traveling and what is the purpose of your trip?”

“I am an architect in Melbourne presently in India for a trade show and am using the weekend for a brief family visit.”

I stopped short. A stunningly attractive girl, roughly in her mid twenties I would say, walked in and flopped on the berth opposite me next to Ramlal while her porter gently placed her two suitcases beneath the lower berth. Her skin was the color of wheat and her bell-like earrings glittered in the dim light inside the ICF coach. She had fastened her hair into a ponytail and wore a gold ring on her left index finger. As she bent low, with her back to me, to fasten her luggage with chain, her T-shirt lifted slightly revealing her lower back and her narrow and slender hip that curved its way both upward and downward. So mesmerized were my eyes that her label “Express” in her jeans went unnoticed.”

Before my dropped jaw could recover its stature she graciously smiled and asked

“Is this yours,” she asked me pointing to the lower berth I was perched on.

“Yes.”

“I guess this one is mine then,” she said indicating to the berth opposite mine.

A rough portly guy, made way towards us and paused near our compartment. He was shabbily clad with torn grey woolen sweaters and brown frayed trousers. His front teeth appeared as though it had been knocked out and plugged in a dozen times while his breath reeked of stale bananas and alcohol. I wondered how he could afford a ticket on Rajdhani unless he was into crimes. Stabilizing himself, he took a good look at the seat number and asked me to get out of his berth

“Excuse me sir, wait a minute,” I added pulling my ticket.

I showed him seat number 33 and bingo! He showed his, 33.

Being relatively sure that the chances of computerized reservations going wrong were remote, I said I wouldn’t budge from my seat in decent language and patiently began explaining that apparently there had been some mistake and we‘d sort it. He started swearing at me starting 10 generations above me and went 20 down.

“Wait a minute,” the girl came to my aid and pointing to his ticket asked him to go to coach A5, ours being A6. The ink in his crumpled ticket was slightly smudged deceiving his eyes making him believe that it was I who had violated his allotted space. Good riddance I thought, at the same time felt glad that she had rescued me.

A man clad in brown khakis and white hat walked by with a huge vessel not so much a cauldron as a good-sized filter, it was steaming and emanating fumes that I discerned were from coffee, which lifted my spirits. Beckoning the coffee seller closer, I asked Ramlal and the girl if they wanted any. They gladly agreed, and no sooner I took my first sip than I heard a jingle in the vendor’s pocket as he placed his coins.

The compartment was now almost full with barely a few minutes left for the departure. While inside the AC coach thick windows dampened the noisy din from the busy platform, enabling us to enjoy the silence within, it precluded the evening breeze and the fresh aroma of sizzling eggs on the frying pan from reaching us. Therefore, it was quite evident that only the occurrence of a mild jerk indicated that we had departed the station. Glancing at my watch and observing the time as 5.00 p.m., I figured it was running slow by 15 minutes and had to adjust it. A network of rails interweaved as we passed the yard and the clangor made by the wheels, when they locked into the correct pair of rails, was audible yet muffled.

The compartment was getting noisy with a few travelers engaged in animated discussions while others gesticulated wildly throwing up their hands, apparently recounting their anecdotes and enjoying the evening. A few students were playing a pack of cards while a lady was trying to soothe her crying daughter. Amidst chaos that prevailed in the compartment, the only person experiencing inner peace was the kid on the side berth engrossed in her book. My eyes wandered and found its way back to the pretty girl sitting opposite me where she caught my eye and we introduced ourselves, her name Lavanya.

Ramlal looked at me and said, “So you were saying you are an architect.”

“Oh, yes, I work for a company “Waugh and Partner Architecture,” in southern Melbourne and the nature of the work I do involves designing the interior of warehouses for mid-sized to large scale industries.”

“Interesting, I am a trader and specialize in home décor myself.”

“Really? Wow! You should have been at trade show I was at last week for which my company sent me, investing a lot of money on my air-ticket and living expenses. It was appalling and a total waste as it never suited the work I do. Perhaps, the exhibits on vinyl, carpets and mahogany would have interested you. The only positive outcome is I got a free ticket to India… Lavanya, what about you? Do tell us about yourself”

“Well, I am a cardiologist and primarily a researcher at the All India Institute of Medical Science AIIMS. Interestingly, I was in Sydney for a convention a couple weeks back and was delighted with the place.”

“I hope you get a chance to watch the match at the S.C.G?”

“Unfortunately, tickets were sold out and I couldn’t go last Tuesday,” she said making a sour face.

Ramlal said, so how have you been enjoying your vacation, now that your business trip hasn’t very rewarding.”

“I’ve covered fair amount of ground already with the trade show in Lucknow and Bangalore. Then I visited Rajasthan and my uncle in Delhi. I guess I have been traveling a lot, pretty much every city, and at last Calcutta. I am taking my flight from there”

“Calcutta? Oh! You mean eventually?” She said and smiled.

Eventually? I guess she was referring to the frequent delays Rajdhani had been subjected to in the recent past, as I was told, and even last week, due to some derailment, it reached 7 hours late in Mumbai. It appeared that both were well read and with the doctor around, the conversation was indeed healthy. Ramlal knew the right sentences to speak and with the good positive attitude I guess he was a remarkable salesman or a businessman. Until now, I had never encountered anybody like Lavanya possessing a ravishing beauty with an acute mind. Life isn’t always fair is it? I wondered how many young hearts she broke if not fixed. It would be a suicide not to get her contacts when we reach I concluded.

Sharply at quarter past 8.00, the bearers arrived and a heavyset man with a slight paunch and hunching shoulders placed a huge tray containing foods packed in aluminum foil on the side berth next to the young kid. Each was served one packet and upon inspecting the contents, I figured we were given puris, rice, pickle curd, and a mixed vegetable sautéed curry. Hardly had Ramlal opened his food packet when we heard weird chewing noises by the little girl’s mom whose lips gyrated in a rhythmic circle as she attacked the food open-mouthed. Her huge nose-ring shone being moistened from her perspiring nose.

I said, “Wow this is delicious. Ramlal, travel has changed so much during the past few years. I am at awe with the improvement in the quality of food and I suspect it is no longer unhygienic.”

“Undoubtedly. The quality of food has remarkably improved and if you now notice you get water packets. You don’t need to hunt for functioning taps in stations anymore”

Lavanya joined the conversation. “They don’t let you smoke anymore and one can peacefully sleep during the nights without being disturbed by stale beedis.”

I said, “Well, there used to be a time when I was a kid while traveling by trains, especially during the night time when everyone closed the windows and shutters fearing dacoits and I seldom slept through being bathed in my own sweat. I guess dacoits in Gwalior are now extinct. In fact, Indian Railways is so organized now that I feel a lot safer to travel by trains,”

There was a momentary pause and we noticed the kid throwing tantrums as she was ordered to finish her food before she could touch the book. Soon, when she realized all eyes were upon her, she became docile in obeying her mom’s orders. She wiped her tears and took the water packet that was now handed to her by the bearer and we took our share too.

Ramlal said, “Speaking of water packets, once when I was young the train had arrived at Itarsi junction and being the oldest, I was sent to fill water in a quaint kerosene container that used to literally supply boiled water in the afternoon sun. Whistling, I noticed there wasn’t any taps around and walked two coaches back to the nearest tap and guess what! It was out of order. I tried a couple more taps and realized I had ventured quite far. Retracing my way, I wanted to get back into the compartment but imagined the caning I would receive from my uncle for returning his wishes unfulfilled. I was still two coaches way when I got this brainwave; I got into the compartment close to where I was, walked to the opposite door, and got down on the other side, where I had to cross the tracks to climb onto the opposite platform.

Fortunately, there was water in the closest tap, and relieved I was even though it was hot if not lukewarm, and I quickly filled my can. I turned around and got the fright of my life, the signal had turned green and my train sounded its horn. At the same time, another train was making way into the platform where I was. I prayed mine wouldn’t start until the other train stopped and luckily when the oncoming train halted, I wildly ran into the nearest coach, opened the compartment door and climbed down on the opposite side and quickly clambered onto my train. I have never been so scared.

We laughed and Lavanya shared her anecdote. “Well I often traveled from Chennai to New Delhi by Tamil Nadu express, and when it arrived Nagpur at 2.00 p.m., a similar New Delhi -Chennai Tamil Nadu express arrived on the adjacent platform quite similar to what Ramlal just described. It was so confusing that your head spins with all boards on the train showing “Chennai New Delhi” so it wasn’t uncommon that sometimes you accidentally get into the wrong train.”

“Speaking of Nagpur,” said Ramlal. “There was a time during the 80’s when a stall outside the station was famous for its chicken Biryani that passengers used to venture out to and grab a packet for lunch. I haven’t tried it but while we were on a student excursion to Mysore, our train had stopped at Nagpur and two students in our group ventured out to bring samples for the rest. I wonder what happened, we left without them.”

“Well, I once asked my co-passenger how far are we from Mughalsarai and when he said an hour, I thought I’ll catch some sleep and upon awaking, I asked him how far we were from Mughalsarai and he again said an hour. I was sure we hadn’t stopped due to a faulty engine or a red signal and when it figured that we had gone past Mughalsarai by an hour, I was alarmed.”

They both watched me in disbelief.

“Oops! That was a joke,” I said and laughed.

Ramlal said, “Yeah it can get scary sometimes when such mistakes happen and you feel like a fool. It is good to travel by Rajdhani, as there are so few stops that you reach your destination very quickly. Well, that was a good dinner. Good to have you guys as company. I guess we’ll have some dessert, ice cream or some sweet, when the train stops at Kota or if you aren’t that hungry, we could at Ratlam.

“Ratlam? Isn’t that in Rajasthan?” I replied, being confident about my geographical knowledge, especially when it was pertinent to train travel.

“I guess you mistook Ratlam for Kanpur,” I smiled, as the first station Rajdhani stopped was at Kanpur, wondering how one could make such obvious mistakes and they both exchanged glances.

A new voice in the compartment announced the arrival of a gentleman dressed in white trousers and red tie, his blue shirt with white stripes being partially covered with his navy blue sports jacket. He seemed an educated man with a college degree and carried a pad with a stack of papers. Only when I noticed that it carried names of passengers and their reservation did I realize that he was the ticket collector (T.C.)

The TC intervened while we had just finished talking and asked me. “Excuse me sir, can I look at your ticket?”

Knowing it was his routine job of examining our tickets and making sure nobody traveled ticket-less, especially in A/C compartment, I partially stood up removed my wallet and was about to retrieve the ticket when the corner of my eyes spotted the ruffian who had tried to throw me away from my compartment.

The TC said, “Sir, we have a problem here, the seat belongs to him,” pointing to the ruffian, “ and not you.”

“What do you mean, isn’t he in coach A5?” I asked with my brows raised.

“No, it appears as though his ticket is printed with A5, but after going through my documents I am concluding that it is indeed A6,” he finished.

A wave of nausea swept past my stomach. Drat! I knew it. I missed the date. On such a short vacation to India, if I were supposed to see all my relatives and family scattered all across the nation, I was bound to miss the date. Exasperated, I slowly examined my ticket. But wait, indeed it saw February 10^th- the correct date.

“Hey! I guess today is Feb. 10^th right?” said I looked at the TC.

“Yes sir, indeed today is Feb 10^th.’

“Then prove me wrong, how does the seat belong to him.” I thundered

“Indeed, the date and the coach number are both correct, but you have boarded the 2302 New Delhi-Mumbai Rajdhani express. Your ticket shows train number 2952 New Delhi-Calcutta Rajdhani express that would have left New Delhi at 5.15 pm, so please get down in Kota, the next station, and pay a fine of 2000 rupees.”

While the whole compartment echoed with laughter, I presented a dumb look to Ramlal and avoided making eye contact with Lavanya whom I guess was stifling laughter.

“Well, I guess that was mistake huh?” I grinned at Ramlal sheepishly.

With gleaming eyes, Ramlal greeted me, “Welcome to Mumbai, you can stay with me and we three can have dinner tomorrow night. Don’t worry about the T.C., we can pay him to get you through to Mumbai. I am privileged to be in your company.”

I guess I didn’t know what else I could do and decided to take a flight to Calcutta the day after tomorrow from Mumbai. I asked Lavanya the time and she replied 10.00 pm. so I began adjusting my watch that showed 9.45 p.m. I guess my watch had been correct all along. I was lucky enough to get her email address and was luckier when she said she would keep in touch and luckiest when told that I had better mail her frequently because she hates unanswered mails.

Excusing myself, I walked to the door, which upon opening let a full blast of air on my face and it was dark everywhere except for occasional flares from lamps used by people as we crossed cottages and level crossing. Ramlal was patiently talking to the TC. Quite a businessman he was I thought and smiled and gazed at the infinite stars in the sky wondering if any fool would try and count them.

“Trying to count the stars?”

Startled, I turned around to see Lavanya standing behind me near the door and ask me that question as though she read my mind. I moved aside beckoning her closer so that she could face outside and get her share of the winds and while I was barely inches away, I could smell her perfume. Her hair was now let down and it flew past her shoulders, its silkiness now glistening in the moonlight.

“Pleasant evening isn’t it? She asked.”

Sure, I thought sarcastically when Rajdhani lowered its speed. I told myself, Hey! It is all right, and chucked as I gawked at her eyelashes – Perhaps it is the beginning of a new journey. The lights in the horizon expanded in size as the train slowed down and far in the distance saw an approaching station. We heard voices of vendors and spotted the bevy of anxious passengers standing in the station as Rajdhani express pulled into platform number 1 at Kota junction.

“Let’s get some coffee,” I muttered.

Defense Against The Dark Lords

2005-07-24T13:05:00.000-07:00

The sky was darkening and I could barely detect the sun behind the hills. I lay flat on the ground, the battlefield, wounded within and without. I was painfully aware of the outcome yet painless, blissfully unaware of the injuries. I patiently waited; my consciousness slowly receding as I saw vultures prowling above me, ravenous, waiting to strip me bare to the bones.

Allow me to introduce myself. I am Artemis, a Greek soldier solider and my birthright is protecting the King, then come the rest. I engage myself, rather am engaged, in fierce battles and no battle can be won with valor alone. Some say winning wars is a gamble and has no element of intelligence involved. Wise are the ones who realize that the name of the game is strategy.

The dark lords are our sworn enemies and I would do anything it takes, even giving up my life, to protect my king, Rex, who is fair in all respects. During the course of war, every move decides our fate and experience has taught, rather trained, us to face checkered changes in career. I believe in take single steps in defeating the opponent while there are others who can think ten ahead. The Dark Lords have conquered many kingdoms and our king was wise. Tactically using offense, he realized the only way of conquering them was to make the first move and take them off guard.

Soldiers formed the lowest base in the battalion and are skilled swordsmen. Talented, a soldier can sidestep and lash out the enemy to take his place. Next in the hierarchy were knights, marksmen who rode the horses. Mighty with their leap, knights can go over the opponents and overcome them. We were moments within the beginning of a great battle, one that could seal our future. Mate!! My fellow soldier Eris yelled and startled me. Scowling, I screamed, “You shall not use the forbidden word for we are not pirates. It signifies apocalypse.”

The battlefield seemed to lack color and was flat in terrain. I could see them lined up in the horizon. They seemed impenetrable, but soldiers were trained to be fearless. The conch shells blared and the king screamed as everyone became silent. “I am Rex Decimus, sworn enemy of the dark lords, and a loyal servant to the northern region. I shall have my vengeance, either in this life or the next.” He continued, “Attack and skin them alive.” The battlefield echoed with a tumultuous roar while the soldier ahead of the king initiated the gambit. With a rush of blood, holding my sword above, I ran with the intent of decimating their troops.

Step by step we advanced each other and it was anybody’s game, no one could predict the war’s outcome. Within moments, I confronted a dark soldier, my first quarry. “Prepare for death you lone warrior,” he echoed, his sword gleaming in the midday sun. “I serve King Rex, and my blood shall not be put to waste,” I said clenching my teeth. We circled each other and I thrusted my sword aimed at his navel. He brilliantly sidestepped and lashed hard, the sword barely missing me by nose, while my ears detected a whoosh. Thinking I was off balance he went for my heart, but I was well poised and ducked low going for his legs. He was quick and sensing his mistake he was immediately up on air and both were ready for the next move. Not striking and facing each other, both were aware of the situation, a deadpan had occurred and we couldn’t break it ourselves.

Whoosh!!! A knight flew over me and the opponent was headless as I gaped at him, “how did you manage it?” The knight, Kronos, radiantly smiled at me eying the opponents, ”who’s next?” while Eros stepped besides me. We changed the game plan and decided to advance together to give more freedom to the Kronos on covering ground. While Kronos decided to attack their soldier on the right, he had failed to detect the dark knight approaching him. Being caught unawares, it was unlikely that the Kronos could save himself. Eros, the soldier and my dear friend, darted across from his place and made a suicidal move to sacrifice himself.

I gritted my teeth as I looked back to see if the King was safe. Three soldiers and the bishop protected Rex. Under extreme circumstances, it wasn’t uncommon for Bishops to take part in the battle for protecting the king. Another bishop, Zeus, saw Eros’s downfall and raced towards me. The battle went for hours and half our soldiers were wiped. Their elephant gladiators were emerging strong and were partly responsible for our soldiers’ death. We had to do something.

Kronos hinted and I moved ahead and made myself obvious to their elephant gladiator. He fell for the decoy and positioned himself to attack me. Kronos, yet again, came from nowhere sailing over their soldier and the elephant gladiator fell. Amidst the confusion, I saw that their king was now unguarded and yelled, “Check king Vulcan Zeus.” I stood ahead of the king, Kronos moved to the side while Zeus was along the diagonal. “You’re doomed Vulcan, I thought,” When queen, Venus, slashed Kronos appearing from nowhere. She could travel ten times mightier than Vulcan I felt.

While rapidly advancing, our defense had weakened and I turned back. The other elephant gladiator placed himself on the corner aiming straight at Rex. Their knights were both on his two sides, the bishop again aiming him at an angle. Queen Venus moved and was in line of his sight. King Vulcan roared pulling his sword, “Rex, you’re corned my friend, and as I step forward there’ll be yet another heroic death.”

I looked at Erin’s slumped body and babbled, “Do you think Anand was better?” Erin holding his last breath muttered, “I still feel Karpov is the best with black – The perfect checkmate.”

Escape From Moscow

2005-07-13T13:42:00.000-07:00

Thirty thousand feet above the Baltic Sea, Viswanath (Visu) sipping on his vodka gazed out of the window of the Boeing 767 barely making out the features of the islands that were clustered underneath. Nudging Rishi, he deliriously began,

“Dude! Why don’t you take a sip? We’ve been tricked until now, as this is real Vodka. Come on, we are in higher plane, close to the spiritual sky and laws of Karma don’t apply here.”

Rishi, a seeker, nodded no and resumed conversation with a plump businessmen from Oregon and asked,

“Since you worked once in Russia for five years, what was it like?”

“Man! You’ve ever watched the movie Ground Hog Day?”

Rishi and Visu were on their way to Mumbai and while Rishi eagerly anticipated a good Russian afternoon in the Sheremetyevo airport where they would be transit passengers, Visu was worried whether the airport will have smoking sections. The Boeing spiraled on its descent and they glimpsed Moscow that was capped with snow as chimneys in houses barely revealed themselves. Both exchanged glances when the Russian passengers clapped thunderously praising the captain for landing smoothly.

Rishi’s initial response was dismal, as he had anticipated the airport decor to be on par with O’Hare or Dulles but the airport was poorly furnished and Mumbai airport appeared superior. He despondently stood with Visu on a long line that ended in a kiosk where they examined passports and let you into the transit lounge.

At the transit lounge, Visu exclaimed, “Man! I don’t believe my eyes, look at them,” as three beauties in the store came to help them but soon figured they didn’t know English. Visu looked at the refrigerator and pointed to “Aqua Minerale,” and swore when the credit-card machine took 20 minutes to generate the receipt. Outside the shop, finding his thirst unbearable, Visu ripped off the bottle lid and consumed one-fourth the contents in a single gulp. His face contorted and he almost sprayed them all on Rishi’s face.

“Goddamn! It! This is aerated water.”

A saleswoman with green eyes and a velvet top glared at them and Visu flashed his teeth bringing his index finger gesturing that he needed toothpaste. The woman exclaimed,

“Go straight and take a right, you’ll find a drug store,” she said in fluent English.

“Jesus! It seems like there is only one restroom in the entire goddamn airport,” cried Visu as he was relieving himself, he turning right and smiled at a man whom he thought was a peasant and the man immediately turned away and Rishi felt as though he had ogled at his high school classmate. Perhaps nobody eyeballed in Russia, he wondered.

“See, I told you Moscow was a very expensive city, I would rate it in the top three, and perhaps it would even rival Tokyo in the years to come. Can you believe we paid 150 bucks for a stupid toothpaste? So much for their improvement from Communism to democracy,” said Visu sadly in a coffee shop

“You mean 150 rubles? That is hardly 4 Euros,” said a Britisher nearby who couldn’t help overhearing their conversation.

He joined in their conversation and they began recounting their JFK-Moscow flight by Air-India and told now they would be taking the Aeroflot to Mumbai.

“Aeroflot? He gasped, spraying coffee. Make sure they give you complementary parachutes. Guys, I wish you luck – farewell.”

They roamed through the transit lounge, and Rishi began worrying about his journey to Mumbai. On the other hand, Visu was at bliss as Russians didn’t care and smoked anywhere in the airport, even though there were only certain places you could smoke. At six p.m., they were at the Aeroflot counter to receive their board pass when two passengers were arguing.

Visu intervened to arbitrate and a Gujarati fat lady impatiently explained that they both were boarding the same aircraft to Mumbai but the departure times were printed different – 8.00 pm, and 10.00 pm. Visu examined and found his was 10.00 pm much to the delight of the other disputant, a malayalee. Soon, it was soon understood that Air India was in league with Aeroflot and there were two different ways to purchase the same ticket from either companies and Air India had not informed Rishi and similar passengers about the change in time from 10.00 to 8.00 p.m.

A huge line of Indian passengers gathered and the lady opened the kiosk and shooed them away calling them back at 7.00. The officials didn’t bother informing the passengers about a possible delay and their angry protests were easily subdued.

At 8.00, nothing was said but dinner coupons of 10 $ were handed over to all passengers who silently took it like prisoners. Inside the “Taj Mahal” restaurant, Visu peered through the menu that was like his organic chemistry book, huge with sides describing chicken, beef, lamb, vegetables, and rice and he hoped they gave generous portions, for their appetites were ravenous. The waitress interrupted his conversation and he opened page 54 and pointed to item 383. The stout Russian waitress, who was already stressed out, said, “Only chicken pizza, vegetarian pizza, and French fries,” and Visu looked shocked.

Dismayed with the bad quality and low proportions of served dinner, the passengers flocked to the counter hoping to get their boarding passes and enjoy quality food up high on the skies.

The Malayalee wailed, “I em the gest of aanar for the coanvention at 9.00 and we haven’t even taken off,” and the Gujrati lady screamed, “ I must attend the wedding at Rajkot tomorrow evening.”

Rishi noted a natty tamilian on his double-breasted suit, who almost singled out as a paragon of CEO virtues but for his shining white Nike sneakers. He approached Visu and lamented,

“Seeeee… This is what they lack…Character,” in a strong tamil accent and Visu bit his collar stifling himself from explosive laughter.

A Russian official appeared and handed out 3-minute free calling cards to passengers for them to inform home about the imminent delay and the Gujarati yelled at her, “I don’t want this, but my boarding pass.”

The harassment continued and the Russians tormented them mercilessly by giving them no information on when the flight would take off but asked them to return to the counter sometime later. Some were nearly in tears and all they cared was to reach home. It was quite a sight for other passengers to see them all distraught and sitting in a single file up to nearly a mile away from the counter. Leagues were being formed amongst the passengers to deal with the situation and many voiced their expert opinions. A Canadian marwadi lady was cursing her husband for not paying a couple hundred more and travel by British Airways.

Visu said, “I wonder if British Airways flies into Russia. They won’t meet any of their regulations.”

The announcement finally happened and all were too weary even to get up. 200 passengers after being examined their boarding passes were hoarded into a bus and Visu couldn’t help getting the feeling as though he was being sent to Riga or some ghetto. The bus was overcrowded by Indian standards and the pig-tailed Bengali swore asking all the passengers to sign on a sheet of paper that she would send high officials and have Aeroflot grounded permanently.

The ghetto fortunately turned out to be a Tupolev as mighty as the Boeing from the exterior but the interior was dismal. The seats were folded and had to be unfolded as though they were in a seedy cinema hall. Visu noted a lady with horn-rimmed spectacles sitting on 16 B and he politely asked her to give him his seat when she chattered in Russian and showed him 28C. Someone at the back screamed, “Hey! The rows end with 27.”

Hell broke loose in the aircraft and the stewardess nearly pleaded with folded hands, the Indian way, and tried to provide seating arrangements to everyone while Rishi hoped they don’t entertain standing travel. The seats were crammed and there was no television and the overhead bins could hardly fit in a pillow. No announcements were made and they were stranded in a desolate runway. Was the flight ill fated?

At last the mighty Tupolev aircraft pulled into the main runway while Visu peered to catch sight of a possible air traffic control tower. Detecting none, he prayed not wanting to hear a final whistle from the stewardess to the captain. He remembered the movie “The Final Destination,” but it was too late, the Russian Jumbo Jet had met with the skies.

For all the ruckus Visu’s co-passengers made and the racket that was created at the Sheremetyevo airport, the flight landed in Mumbai at 8.45 a.m., just one hour past the scheduled arrival time. The flight was very stable and the dinner was fantastic and they all exited the aircraft quietly without making any noise as they nodded at the stewardess bye.

High Speed Chase

2005-07-13T13:36:00.000-07:00

Early evening, I pulled my silver colored Ferrari F-50 out of my garage and zoomed towards Park Street. The sun was down and the skyscrapers on the far east of Detroit shone in the evening gloom. I arrived park street at 9.05 pm sharp and parked beside the Blockbuster was an orange Toyota supra that belonged to Chris. Hey man!!! He flashed his teeth. Wassup Yo!!!! Igniting a cigarette I peered down the street to spot any cop car and I inhaled deeply, the evening breeze sweeping my face. Chris remarked, “Hey where’s Carl???”

Exhaling I started “The apparent change in frequency by an observer moving relative to the source of the waves,” when what sounded like a pin drop expanded into a deafening roar and an olive green Nissan Skyline GTR raced towards us and shrieked to a halt. “Is what is known as Doppler’s effect,” I finished. Carl, appearing somber in his Dartboard sunglasses, got out and “Dawg!! Light me one will ya?”

Within the next twenty minutes the rest arrived. Mad throttled his blue Mitsubishi eclipse while Max made his Honda Civic scream like a Boeing 747. He had supplemented his car with nitrous cylinders to boost up the horsepower close to 400. Nitrous cylinders although dangerous to the engine motor can cause tremendous acceleration and enable the driver to achieve high speeds.

On the second Saturday of every month, unknown to the cops, The Chasers, as we called ourselves, gathered to race through the streets of Detroit. Street racing while illegal and dangerous can cause intense excitement and an adrenaline rush to the rider. The racecourse began in Park Street and we had to reach Eisenhower Avenue before taking I-43 where we raced for 20 miles. En route, we travel along the coastline of Lake Huron before taking exit 9 onto Michigan Avenue where the race ends

Soon, the cars were ready and boom!!!! We pulled out of Park Street and slowly accelerated. Careful not to begin fast, I started at moderate speed and entered I-43. Once on Park Street, I gunned the accelerator and the needle strained close to 90 mph. I saw a flash in my rear view and within seconds, racing ahead of me, was a red Mazda RX-7 that for a second made me wonder if my car had stopped.

I was 9^th and had ample time to reach first. The I-43 stretch we chose was similar to a traditional racecourse being tortuous with 4 lanes. I grabbed my steering and slowly gained over the yellow Nissan 350Z and smirked at Red’s face as I passed him. Oops!!! I had to drop into 4^th gear and lower the speed to 70mph to maneuver myself at the bend. My rear wheel didn’t like it much as the tires slightly skidded on the concrete and I struggled before regaining control.

Ahead, passing on the 3^rd and 4^th lane were a silver Dodge Viper SRT-10 and 2004 Chrysler crossfire. Poising myself, I cut across from the 4^th lane to the 2and in an attempt to pass both the cars from the right side. But Reed was smart and immediately jumped into the 2and and Roger closing the gap by getting into 3^rd. Not wanting to brake at those high speeds I tried to race them on the 1^st lane and I almost got them when Reed tried to push me onto the shoulder. Twisting his steering hard he rammed on to my front left and I kissed the shoulder wall as it sparked and consumed my right side view mirror.

Fortunately the momentum caused him to clear off the first lane and I recovered. I over took them both and was now 6^th on the list. I looked at the rearview mirror and swore in all languages and shook my fist. I guess it was now time for me to accelerate and thus, pressed on the nitrous button and gained over other two cars. I knew if I beat Carl and Sonny, I would just have to deal with Silver. Silver had an unbeaten record in our so-called Tour De Streets and it was my deepest desire to get him this time.

After I crossed exit 15, the scene dramatically changed. I saw a couple coconut trees overhanging the expressway. “Hey am I dreaming?” Oops!!! I almost ran over a pothole. “A pot hole in the middle of I-63?? Taxpayers are a bunch of jokers.” The Toyota supra was slowly looming closer and we were parallel. As I tried hard to race ahead of him, I heard a whir. From his left side doors, out came a barrel that vaguely resembled a bazooka that was spinning at 40,000 rpm using which he tried to puncture my wheels. Sparks flew as he hit my chassis. His front hood opened and an automated syringe sprayed 1 liter of black dye on my windshield.

Fortunately, I had jimmied a liquid dispenser onto my front windshield and was able to spray gasoline that dissolved the dye and enabled me to restore visibility. The Supra being a far superior vehicle soon shot black smoke from its tail and I tried hard to concentrate and not get knocked out to the shoulder. I adjusted my front hose and loaded the program on the console. Shooting out from the nozzle, a jet stream at 20 gallons per second punched his wheels and he was forced to stay on the 2and lane. Utilizing this opportunity, I surged ahead and beat him by a fair 20 yards continuing to accelerate.

Phew!!! I shook my head and withdrew the nozzle back into my front hood. Sonny and Silver were fighting ahead as I was rapidly gaining on them. I dodged yet another pothole and entered the Trayham tunnel. I tried to squeeze in between Silver and Sonny when Silver banged hard on to my right side and the momentum sent Sonny to the left walls. Sonny scraped hard onto the walls and his Ford Mondeo caught fire. The whole tunnel was illuminated as the Mondeo successively crashed in to the tunnel walls. The glowing embers receded in my rear view and I had only Silver left for the last 2-mile stretch.

Silver was in a handsome orange Alfa Romeo 147 GTA that streaked ahead of me by 100 yards. Lake Huron gleamed on our sides as we raced at 140 mph challenging the winds. The trunk of the Alfa Romeo opened and out dropped a couple sandbags. I swayed narrowly dodging its corners and stepped on the gas. I shot ahead and butted on his boot and his car careened. He recovered and crunch!!! The side chassis bumped and dented.

From his tire rim, a shaft containing a sharp blade in its end shot out and hit my front tire. My tire exploded and I was now on 3 wheels the car was spinning wild out of control. We were on the Mclean suspension bridge when his trunk opened and emptied his spare can of fuel. At 120 miles an hour I spun out of control and I let go of the steering watched myself heading straight for the girder. I covered my face with horror and as I crashed into the bridge. The air bag exploded on my chest taking my breath away and I was knocked unconscious.

What seemed to appear like space, I saw blackness everywhere with no stars. Within seconds lights flashed on the screen, blaring “Game Over.” Sipping on my coffee, I checked my pockets for some quarters and couldn’t find any. The arcade was unusually full on a Saturday evening and I slowly walked towards the ATM machine.

The Laughing Stalker

2005-07-13T13:35:00.000-07:00

Peering through the windows, I took a deep breath and admired the early morning dawn as I stretched and drove the last bit of laziness that enveloped my body. It was 5.30 am and the weather was slightly chilly inviting me for an early morning run. I picked up my new Nike sneakers that had foot enhancements for extra cushioning on hard surfaces. Dusting my shoes and ensuring there were no scorpions lurking inside, I donned them on and tied my lace semi-tight.

I ventured out of my cabin and excitedly gazed at the Manyara Lake that bordered my cabin. I stretched my calf and hamstring muscles, crooning as I felt a warm sensation creeping through my inner thigh. As I was getting ready to start my run, I recounted the series of events that happened over the past week and everything now seemed weird. I was in a totally different place. Pursuing my PhD in Ornithology at the University of Nebraska, I was offered a summer fellowship to research East African birds. I had taken the United Airlines; flight U-247, to Dar Es Salam, Tanzania. The flight had been smooth and the food they had offered me was very tasty.

Placing my right foot on the first streak of grass that surrounded the cabin pathway, I began my jog. The first few steps were more like the trotting of a horse and I relaxed as the blood bathed my muscles and warmed them. I scanned the Ngorogoro crater to my east and wondered what made the mighty volcanic mountain, once taller than the Kilimanjaro, buckle into a caldera (crater). Soon, I began running rhythmically and hit the zone, feeling as though I could now run into eternity. Ornithology had been my passion since I was a kid and I distinctly remembered how I used to admire the bald eagle and the grey-necked vulture. The Serengeti plains that surrounded the towering crater were supposedly inhabited by 75,000 animal species and rich flora.

No sooner I ran half a mile than I was already into the jungle. Unlike jogging trails in the United States, there were no well-defined routes for runners and I followed what was flattened by the local folklore in the dense foliage. The humid weather made me sweat and my t-shirt was already wet. Since it was a Sunday, I had decided to complete 5 miles. Emerging out from a clearing, I gazed at the meadows that seemed to go forever westward, and I was able to make out a pack of zebras grazing on the dry grass. One mile completed and it appeared as though I was cut away from civilization. Everything appeared huge in Africa, right from the little grass to the mighty trees. The acacia tree trunks seemed to run a mile wide.

I looked at my watch and I had been running for 15 minutes at a fairly constant pace and I tried not to think about the possibility of encountering wild animals. It wasn’t uncommon for lions and cheetahs to inhabit the surrounding areas during night. I had taken care to learn that dawn provided the best transition period, as the nocturnal animals would have retreated and the day animals wouldn’t have risen. I was startled as a reedbuck dived into the bushes and disappeared. Running in the wild seemed so easy and much different from a treadmill as I wasn’t aware of any body pains being totally absorbed by what nature had to offer me.

I hoped to run for another half an hour and wanted to complete a circle to my cabin, my compass useful in keeping me in the right direction. I saw a few warthogs, wildebeest, and buffaloes and wondered whether snakes offered themselves into the open similar to these herbivores.

My dreamy and pensive mood was suddenly distracted as I heard a crack a few feet behind me. Not wanting to break my jog, I turned back and peered over a shrub and failed to notice any beast. Convincing myself it was the work of a gazelle or a rabbit, I continued with my canter. I tried carefully listening to the noises on my sides and again I heard a similar cracking. This time, I completely spun around and began running backwards hoping to spot the animal. Suddenly, monkeys screamed and birds flew away as though a disturbance occurred in the jungle. My heart skipped a beat and I increased my pace fearing it might be the work of a cheetah.

I had completed nearly three fourths of the circle and the possibility of turning back was out of question. Somehow, my sixth sense convinced me that I was being shadowed. A stalker? Definitely not in the jungle and I didn’t carry cash while I ran. I was fairly sure that the Ngorogoro region didn’t have any primitive tribal people who practiced cannibalism. Nevertheless, my face started sweating more and my heart pounded louder.

The ground sloped upwards and I looked back to see if I could spot the prey. I slowly observed something spotted in yellow making its way up the ravine and the gap was closing faster. I was close to fainting but kept my guts alive and somehow wanted to sprint through the rest of the distance. Suddenly, a mad laughter thundered in the jungle and the place seemed to shake with mad fury. I grabbed a broken branch for protection and stopped as I found myself getting breathless.

And slowly it emerged from behind the baobob tree and I distinctly made out the feature of the carnivore. Brown in color and covered with spots, the sleek beast taller than the jackal and smaller than a cheetah was unmistakably a spotted hyena. I tightened my grip on the branch as I didn’t have any other means of self-defense. By then my fear had slowly transformed into anger as the hyena approached me barring its fangs. I could smell its feral breath and I couldn’t guess how long it had been stalking me. I remembered learning about hyena; how they stalk on their prey for miles until the victim gets tired and the hyena slowly pounces on them ripping them alive

The hyena making up its mind to attack me poised back and leaped ahead with full force. Being trained on taekwondo, I had the reflex to step aside and transfer my weight completely onto my branch and the hyena. The hyena missed me and crashed into the nearby rock. I couldn’t wait any longer and ran. The hyena chased me and caught me within seconds and sunk its teeth into my calves. A searing pain shot within and I screamed. Summoning courage, I tried disfiguring the hyena’s face but it had me under control.

I prayed to every Lord I knew and wished that my best friend was a Lion. I saw blood all over me as the hyena was ripping me apart. I slowly began losing consciousness and the pain ebbed me. I felt free and light and there was nothing but silence.

A jingle erupted my consciousness and I wondered if I had taken birth into another body. I realized that nothing was wrong with my calves and my clothing was different. Well!!! It was 6.00 am indeed but I wasn’t in Dar Es Salam, but safe under the refuge of my pillows in Washington DC. I was staring at the alarm as I shut it silent.

The Prodigal Passenger

2005-07-13T13:31:00.000-07:00

It wasn’t a cloudy day as such but at the same time you would expect the sun to freely shine through blue skies during the month of March but when I got down from the cab at Heathrow International Airport, a few cirrus clouds was covering the sun. The customary check-in procedure along with immigration and security check took me less than 45 minutes and I was soon seated at gate B-25 ready to board BA-0123 to Port Louis, Mauritius. With more than an hour left to board the Jumbo Jet, I strolled to Café Nero and stood in the queue wondering why none of my business trips so far had ever been to islands.

“One white Mocha, please,” I said to the blond cashier with green eyes and I handed in my Bank one visa card.

“Sorry sir, we accept only cash.”

While my both hands were busy trying to extract some change a third hand reached beyond me to the cashier with a 10 Euro bill and a voice boomed.

“Make it two please, and medium.”

I turned back to notice a trim nattily dressed, pleasant faced, red-mustached, and dark-haired gentleman whose receding hairline was barely noticeable under his Wilton black felt hat. I guessed his age somewhere in the late forties. When our eyes finally met, he gave me a broad smile and shook hands introducing himself as Charlie.

“I watched you at the gate and presume you’re traveling to Port Louis Mauritius which is where I am headed to Mr.?” His voice trailed momentarily indicating it was my turn.

I introduced and thanked him for the coffee and proposed we smoke a cigarette. He accepted and we strolled towards the smoking room where my new acquaintance opened what seemed like an antique cigarette casket and displayed an eclectic collection of branded cigarettes. I thanked him but politely refused and chose Dunhill lights from my pocket when he deftly clicked on his fancy gold-plated lighter and lit mine.

I exhaled and spoke, “So Charlie, what do you do?”

It wasn’t hard for me to guess that he was from an affluent background but at the same time I tried to figure if he was a businessman, politician, or a person with inherited ancestral fortune. He certainly didn’t appear like those lawyers or business degree holders who climbed their way to success sweating 100 hours a week. I frankly admit one of my bad habits is to envy the rich and money I feel is of paramount importance for one’s well-defined existence. Arguably, less than 5 % get rich and often you find the wise saying happiness lies in contentment but I disputed such an attitude and believed contentment breeds inaction and tedium. Eventually I was proud that it was such wise thinking that made me labor into getting a Business degree.

Charlie handed me his business card and indeed, he was a successful leather businessman, after all who hadn’t heard of the Stapletons. I presumed Ronald Stapleton was his father who made the company famous worldwide after his grandfather Graham founded the company on the garage of an old shoe factory in Sussex. I decided to use this fortuitous opportunity to glean as much as possible to the path to perfection – setting up a successful firm.

“I guess I am really privileged to be in your company today,” I spoke in open admiration. He doffed his hat and bowed back. “Are you by any chance Ronald Stapleton’s son?” I enquired.

“No actually he is my uncle. His sons and I along with a few other cousins are the ones who now run the company.”

“Seems like a busy day at Heathrow, as you can see quite a few transit passengers relieving themselves in the smoking lounge.”

“It is getting really hot in here, so why don’t we go and find a couple seats. Perhaps I could use your company.”

“Under normal circumstance, I would expect you to ask me to bugger off. Nevertheless, why would you fly economy?”

“Well, the day before I was overpowered by the thought of being beside the sea – swimming, fishing, jet skiing, or whatever one could possibly do there. I peered at the Atlas and spending a week in the blue waters of Mauritius didn’t seem like a bad idea. I realize from experience that satisfying such whims sometimes gives you longer peace. However though, I am ashamed to add that my secretary couldn’t assert the Stapleton influence in purchasing a business class ticket, let alone first class. Well, it is my observation that rarely when I fly economy, I bump into men who think different from the way I do and it is interesting that a strong sense of camaraderie develops. Strangely, I end up bestowing favors upon them, due to my esteemed occupation, and in that process I feel proud of my philanthropy.”

Once aboard, before I could stow away my hand luggage and take a seat Charlie had already charmed the young airhostess with purple eyelashes and had ensured himself a second round of complementary martini for later that night, not that such freebies mattered to him anymore than coupons to me for ordering pizzas – I never used them and they went straight to trash. Seated on 22B I was fiddling with the handset as it wouldn’t come off the plastic bag when a young dark-skinned kid, an African I presumed, with thick lips and a haircut similar to a Cameroon soccer player paused beside our row and we had to get up so that he could take the window seat.

I started, “Charlie, what is the nature of your business? Well, I am aware from the fame Stapletons hold that you trade with leather, but are you in the tanning industry or do you use leather to make processed goods like wallets and briefcases?”

“Oh! Actually both. Initially while the company was founded, we used to be Tanners. If you aren’t aware, tanning is procedure by which we process the raw hide we get from animals including cattle to remove hair and grime and add chemicals to form what is known as leather. The process is fairly complex and dates back to the dawn of the civilizations. As we began smelling success, my uncle desired to expand the business by incorporating certain finished or processed goods as you had remarked and started making shoes. Ironically, he bought the shoe factory that had leased out its garage to my grandfather who started this business.”

“What about you? You haven’t told me about what you do.”

“Well, I am actually the marketing manager for Precision Invasion, a biosensor start-up firm that makes a range of microfluidic devices that interface anywhere from orifices that are an inch wide in diameter to invisible micron skin pores into which we can infuse fluids through non-invasive schemes. Of course, active research is going on for development of interfaces at the cellular-level. And as you can see, you have a potential for huge commercial success in this realm”

He chuckled, “And I thought you said you were the marketing manager for what did you say? Precision Invasion? Boy! You do seem to have a technical background.”

“Well! I know the field is promising and it is my desire that someday I have my own firm, which is why I put a lot of effort in learning the technicalities and hey! You know, perhaps my grandson will reap the rewards like Charlie Stapleton,” I said smiling.

He quickly countered “Now, you’re making a mistake by thinking I am the son of a king who has money to squander at will. On the contrary, I wish I had inherited enough to retire in Maine and do fishing. Business by no way is easy as you’re probably aware being an expert in market trends and worse, how the behavior of our economy is more unpredictable than our English weather. Anyhow, so what finds you on a plane to Mauritius? Are you on vacation?”

I sighed, “On the contrary, a government agency in Port Louis has expressed desire to use our technology to study and understand the stings of Jelly fish. Of course, the information is classified and I can’t divulge more - I apologize. Anyhow, that doesn’t stop me from taking a break and go on a cruise or fish or bask in shallow waters of the Indian Ocean. Perhaps, I’ll visit the island of cloves – Madagascar.”

There was a momentary lull in our conversation and I realized the Boeing was airborne already and glancing through the window I discerned what looked like a trickle was actually river Thames. I was glad that our conversation happened over the previous few minutes as it acted as an anesthetic in making me forget to witness the plane take-off – during which I usually get dizzy and sick- and I was spared the ordeal of listening yet again to those safety announcements, knowing well my chances of dying in a car crash was much higher. No one advises me on taking precautions in the streets.

When the food cart swung by, we were ready to quench ourselves when Charlie chose Bloody Mary and I Martini. I was surprised to notice the kid onto my right ask a beer. The flight attended asked for his driver’s license and I found out he was 22. It didn’t take long to learn that the kid was doing a course in Tourism at the Essex University, Colchester United Kingdom and was returning home for a brief vacation. Charlie leaned across and shook hands with the kid. The kid introduced himself as Ahmed and spoke in clear and understandable English that had a pronounced French accent.

I have a way of reading people’s faces and over the years it grew to be a past time. Charlie was too quick to introduce himself and I felt slighted as he didn’t give me enough opportunity to understand him, especially his loquaciousness – it became apparent within 5 minutes of our first conversation. Of course, gauging his dressing style, one can easily predict his richness, vanity, and arrogance. On the other hand, Ahmed’s dour expression somehow implied that he led a tough life - poverty, hardship, misery, and deprivation. Of course, first, I must be honest in admitting that I came to this conclusion from the way he was eying Charlie. Secondly, he was from Africa and going by its indigent standards it was highly probable his family was in penury. Nonetheless, studying his grave countenance on the other hand I figured he was a very obedient kid and would lead his family out of misery some day.

I returned to Charlie and asked, “So, where all do you have offices? I presume world wide?”

“Right now, most of our tanning industries lay in England centered in London. While our traditional approach involved the use of natural skins, it is now slowly shifting to synthetic leather processed from resin, polyamides and other chemicals. But we have marketing offices in Moscow, Rome, and most big cities in Europe and of course in the Americas. We are slowly expanding into Asia – Singapore and Malaysia. Hey, it was my idea that we switch to synthetic leather. My cousins were envious when I proved the change worked successful.”

I was surprised to learn that they processed leather from kangaroos and ostrich too. Soon, he ranted on synthetic and natural leather and lectured me on ways of purifying them on tanneries. It was getting really boring and I tried piercing my concentration through his inanities to try and pick what is essential for aspiring business candidates. Nonetheless, the martini was least useful in helping me get through the harangue.

“Do you enjoy the luxurious life Charlie that we mortals don’t get to experience,” I asked immediately realizing that it was a rhetorical question.

“Money is power man, you will never understand the influence I can exert to achieve my likes in this world. Because I have offices all over the world, I have been to all the major continents, enjoyed their different cuisines, and experienced their different cultures. The people in third world countries treat you like demigods and literally worship you. Perhaps UK is not the place to enjoy the riches. Often you get invited to parties where you get a chance to meet celebrities.”

“Anybody in particular?” I asked stifling a yawn.

“Hugh Grant. I’ve known him pretty well. I know the queen personally and have met Prince Charles. I get free executive passes to view the Wimbledon every year or watch cricket at the Lords. Sadly the English cricket team ought to be revamped,” he said and sighed.

He paused and continued, “Well, to be honest, I hate to admit that I am not as opulent as you think I am. Even though Stapleton Associates is a public firm and our shares hold a good price in the market, there are billion dollar industries, especially many semiconductor and pharmaceutical firms. Even the car industries make huge money. In terms of contentment or rather do I get a chance to enjoy the riches? Not really I am far from it. I like challenges and there is a burning desire to expand the empire my grandfather built that uncle brought to fame.”

“Are there any tips you would like to offer me for establishing a sound business firm?”

“Son, be on all ears. Technology evolves and market changes. I learn a lot watching people, especially the Japanese. It can be very insightful. They consider business like wars and don’t expect any immediate results. Further, the ability to motivate oneself constantly and adapt to changing environment is the name of the game. Not that you aren’t aware of what I said.” He said and patted my back.

I could see that the Bloody Mary was being effective. The next half hour he told me different tales and anecdotes of situations he encountered in his travels, which he thought was funny, which I tried to listen graciously, of course most of which I felt were embellished and egotistic. His passions and desires were countless and I felt like a recluse upon hearing them. He extolled some of his best-laid plans, which he considered, “intelligent business decisions,” and how he was instrumental for increasing the turnover by more than twice during the year 2000. I began wondering if he was just all say and if it were his brothers or cousins who were the smart perspicacious ones.

I asked, “Did you ever have to employ devious schemes under any crunch situations? In others words cheat a little?”

Well, “You can’t expect to probity and morals to guide you into successful business. Even a street peddler can tell you that. A righteous businessman is an oxymoron but nonetheless tell me one human who is upright these days? All government officials in third world countries are venal and corrupt. Unfortunately, a fraction of our profits get swallowed by them, but hey! In the end I am happy. Politics is power man. It is far better to be in power in a third world country than a successful businessman in the west. Some of the benefits the people who rule them enjoy are indescribable. You ask me if I felt powerful. I hate to say no. Politics is power. They rule us – in the literal sense.”

He paused and continued, “While we complain our politicians as corrupt and dishonest, they don’t quite enjoy the power as the ones in other countries. Look at countries ruled by dictators, Cuba, Uganda. Those men were the most powerful and influential and knew to enjoy the riches. What happened in Rwanda? The U.N could do nothing. The king of Swaziland is about to marry his nth wife who is already pregnant.”

He gave a few more nonsensical analysis of what power meant to him and I was spared when we were served dinner. While I twirled my fork on the spaghetti, I partly agreed his views on dictators and politicians as they held the power. Why did I never think of this before? Perhaps only when one gets rich does one realize he still has more to climb, I felt.

Ahmed was patiently listening to our conversation and taking a break from Charlie, I asked him,

“So Ahmed, what triggered you to study in Europe and where do you live, in Essex? Do you have a scholarship?” I asked wondering how the poor kid supported himself in England.

“Actually, I live with my uncle. He is my brother’s dad and immigrated to England in the 60s and ever since lived there and my dad desired I study in England,” he answered with clarity. That explains how the kid could afford having originated in Mauritius.

“What interested you in tourism?” I questioned.

Ahmed said, “As you’re probably aware, tourism industry in Mauritius is very rewarding and I can make enough money as a tour guide which is enough for one to lead a very good life. The islands are a paradise and I could take you to lots of fantastic places invisible to other tourists. I can guide the catamaran quite well as I have been doing so since I was a child”

Charlie replied, “Well actually I am on vacation now. I visit Mauritius every other year and I love coming here over and over. In most part, I love the food; especially the biryani, native pork, and smoked Marlin. In most part, I just laze around in the beach and enjoy the climate and women. Hey, perhaps you can take me somewhere and show me places. Sometimes, from experience, I conclude knowing the guide beforehand benefits both the guide and the visitor,” he said and winked.

Ahmed’s in for some good money I thought feeling good for the kid.

Ahmed asked Charlie, “I guess I can show you around Mauritius. What would you like to see? I am sure catamaran cruises will be desirable to you and I know a lot of fantastic places regular tourists don’t get to see. You can also see Ile-aux-Cerfs and Gabriel islands. Of course we can also fish and do a variety of other activities.”

The conversation shifted and I asked, “Well Ahmed, do you like your courses?”

“Actually, I don’t quite like studying and I prefer playing soccer, as that is what I am best at. Africa has a lot of good countries that breed world famous soccer players. I was the best in my school but I failed to get a scholarship in college. My father said I must study something as education completes and gives shape to man. I can keep playing forever but I fear the wrath of my father and therefore decided to take up and studying tourism.”

I could recall a number of countries on the West African coast that qualified to world cup soccer finals including Cameroon and Nigeria. Wow! Playing for your country is something I thought.

I said, “What your dad says is correct, a good education is necessary for you to get a good job and you may not understand now but later in future it will certainly help you maintain your family and give you a good life.” And I ranted until I ate the poor guy’s head off. Another sentence and he would have perhaps broken open the window, jumped, and killed himself. I concluded my diatribe by telling him he must complete his degree and sow his seeds now for a bright future and also pointed to Charlie and told him how successful and a world famous businessman Charlie was.

Three of us had a good conversation during dinner and after that I closed my eyes and ruminated on the same question that kept haunting me for a long time - what determines a man’s destiny, was it providence or effort? On one hand you had rich schmucks, perhaps ruthless ones, like Charlie whom I couldn’t envision suffering. Well, if it at all he did then it was self-inflicted. He didn’t need to work at all and even if he did he could as a hobby and not in the form of some grueling drudgery. On the other hand, Ahmed, my heart went out to him. He had sacrificed living with his parents so that he could go to Europe and get a college degree and return to take care of them. His girlfriend probably misses him the most while Charlie I was sure had a mistress in every city he visited. I felt proud of giving him some pep talk even if it were privy. Sometimes you’re better off listening to strangers than near and dear ones.

I was asleep when the plane landed and despite clearing customs and immigration I was still drowsy at the carousel. We picked our baggage and shook hands. Ahmed left and I eyed Charlie and asked if he wanted to smoke.

“What do you say? Should I take him as my tour guide? He appears honest and straight and I feel assured the tour will be worth the money. I am pretty sure I won’t be deceived or least be stranded on some island. Imagine being marooned on some uninhabited island with just your trunks. And you know what, I feel like helping the kid, there is some radiance from his face that beckons you to lend him a helping hand. I’ll reward him handsomely and perhaps he can delight his girlfriend you know, buy her some presents so that she stays with him longer. Aside, would you mind joining me? I’ll find your company pleasurable,” said Charlie.

I felt my pride was letdown when Charlie had performed a similar character analysis and concluded the same on Ahmed. I guess I agreed to accompany Charlie considering Ahmed is getting benefited and if I could put up with Charlie’s egotistic trait, with Ahmed around I might end up watching some really good places in Mauritius.

We had taken down Ahmed's address and agreed on meeting him the following Friday. I bid farewell and walked out. We couldn’t wait to get on the catamarans and go fishing or simply just lay sprawled exposing ourselves to the sun. A few days passed. Friday finally came.

Ahmed’s house was more of a cottage so to speak but towards the rear we could see the mountain range and sloping eastwards was the grassy stretch that slowly gave away into sands, which ran for a hundred meters before ending at the calm blue waters of the Indian Ocean. There were about 6 coconut trees surrounding the cottage that weren’t lean and tall but arcing at different angles. It would be great to be on a private catamaran I concluded

Soon, we were inside sipping on “Blue Marlin,” the Mauritian native beer when we heard a convoy of cars screeching outside the window.

Oh! It is my father exclaimed Ahmed peering out of the window.

There were close to five cars outside and a man who appeared to be in his mid-fifties climbed down a dark blue Mercedes. He was surrounded by a swarm of bodyguards with rifles that I guessed were AK-47s. Sun glinted off his baldhead and he smiled at Ahmed pushing his gold-rimmed glasses up his nose when Charlie’s jaws dropped and I swallowed hard - we unmistakably discerned that we were staring at the face of the Prime Minister of Mauritius.

The Diver's Paradise

2005-07-13T13:29:00.000-07:00

Five hungry men were warming themselves on the freshly lit campfire that was blazing, the winds from the north caused the raging fire angle towards Kasim who crept back a couple feet. The white 6-seater SUV onto his right was bespattered with mud. They could see the zebras grazing on the endless terrain of the Serengeti plains when the sun was just disappearing behind the horizon. The five were worn out after a hot day in a safari trip and couldn’t wait to begin cooking the lamb and chicken on the fire.

Kasim started, “What about your friend Kamal, you said you would tell us after the sun sets.”

“Oh yah, he was an amazing character,” I replied and ranted

The burning sensation he had in his chest was unbearable and yet he was unrelenting. He wouldn’t listen to his body and thundered past the 25 m mark, his final lap before we wound up for the day. Sardar Kamaljit Singh panted, undid his goggles and smiled at me as I was gazing at the minuscular sky blue bikini that barely offered refuge to the girl who just emerged from the pool.

“Why kill yourself man?” I echoed so that he could hear me.

Panting and holding up his hands, he talked in bursts.

“I need to keep increasing my lung capacity,” he would always say, and finish his work out with, “as long as I keep my father happy.”

We showered, and ran enough water until we no longer reeked of chlorine and gathered our gear that contained a couple Speedo goggles, damp swimming trunks, wet towels, and toiletries in a netted swimming bag that dripped chlorinated water as we walked out. The sun was already beyond our vision as we ambled through Maple Avenue and the neon lighting that hung over Jerry’s Smoke store was already lit up.

Every evening, whether or not we accomplished successful results on our research, Kamal and I swam in the college gym where Kamal covered twice as much ground as I did in the same hour. Swimming relaxed our nerves, cooled our body, and relived stress, not to mention the other benefits everyone knows including an excellent cardio work out and muscle toning. I enjoyed the walk home, as during those moments my lungs were generous in letting me suck in ample amounts of oxygen and that created a pleasant sensation in my chest. No yoga or other breathing techniques could create that effect I concluded.

Abdul interrupted my speech and I glanced towards the fire, which he was stoking with a huge rod. “The chicken will be ready in twenty minutes,” he said.

Kasim continued, “Was he your room mate?”

“Yes, Kamal was a great and an excellent roommate to Ravi, Abhay, and myself.

Wow! The chicken smells good, although I must admit, I was desirous of eating a partridge or a quail in such a wild place. Perhaps, plain simple chicken would do, which reminds me,” I said and continued

I paused recalling one night after such a heavy dinner. Abhay sat on the window ledge throwing his right leg out and chugged on his 10^th cigarette of day and blew rings that spiraled upwards, partially obscuring the full moon that was in my view from the recliner where I lay dead tired. Putting down the beer, I wondered how people smoked and destroyed the bliss they could derive from their lungs in other natural ways. Well, we did try teaching the other two roommates swimming but after numerous attempts concluded they would sink even in mercury.

Kamal was staring at a picture and remarked, “My uncle Saawan Singh,” when I looked at him curiously. “My father’s cousin who died at Saawalpur near Lahore,” he added pitifully.

Sardar had immense talent as a raconteur and had us entertained many nights describing horrendous incidents that took place during India’s partition at Lahore and Amritsar, the blood shed and the massacre. It was a sin to have been born a Hindu or Sikh in Lahore and a Muslim in Amritsar. What shook us were tales of the ghost trains that arrived into platforms out of which none alighted. It was a wonder how the station masters hadn’t died after seeing pools of blood flowing out of the coaches and the compartments littered with decimated corpses; a few of whose tongues chopped, or eyes removed, and worst castrated. I tried not to envision any of those grisly episodes.

Yawning, I immediately blocked further gory thoughts from disturbing the beautiful evening when I heard a crack and a splosh! Abhay’s coke broke free from the can and spilled all over the floor.

Kamal uttered a single word, “bends.”

It was a diver’s slang for a condition they experience when making rapid ascent to the surface from deep sea.

Stopping my narration Kamal questioned me curiously, “You know how to dive and what was that term?”

“Bends!” I said.

While primarily requiring oxygen for survival, we also inhale other gases including nitrogen that constitutes roughly 80% of the atmosphere and deep under water we are under higher pressure. When we rapidly ascend, there is a drop in pressure and the nitrogen molecules in our blood stream try to escape out. Due to their fast rate of ascent, the molecules create air bubbles within our bloodstream where they get trapped and cause enormous pain and sometimes-even death.

Two years into our PhD program, while Kamal and I were interning in San Diego at a Biotech start-up, I was somehow convinced by Kamal into taking a three-month intermediate course in scuba diving. I couldn’t believe that he really wanted to do that but you could never tell as his whims very unpredictable; he often took courses outside the department and I knew for a fact that he had taken some lessons on Marine Animals II and Introduction to Tropical waters.

I said, “Dude! Are you crazy? I mean diving, sky diving, and rock climbing, while they all sound great are all meant for adventure enthusiasts and not for people like us. I mean you need to undergo serious training and proper body maintenance.”

He replied, “Nonsense, you can swim a mile easily and the requirement for the course is just 10 laps, that is hardly a fourth of a mile, and we both have the stamina to run a marathon. I mean, we are excellent swimmers, why waste the talent we have nurtured over these years, even if it had been aimless? Besides, we aren’t poor graduate students; we have money from the internship. And perhaps you know we may rediscover the Spanish Armada,” he said and winked.

Slowly he convinced me into doing it and towards the end, I realized there was no point in arguing with certain likes he had; for instance his passion towards his family roots. I spent that weekend reading everything I could about diving and familiarized myself with terms including frogman, scuba, buoyancy control (BC), and different suits.

During the first week, we just displayed our swimming prowess in a pool when they had merely taught us to identify the swimming gear. Sardar blew everyone’s mind when he swam 3 laps underwater without a breath. The instructor a blonde chirpy lady, Anne, with an aquatic streamlined back pointed to the mask and said,

“Spend some extra money and get a good mask as without a clear vision you are ruining your chances of examining rare specimens with perfection. Diving is an art, and like any other sport, it is imperative you begin properly. A good piano teacher would recommend shelling extra money and buy a digital piano and not a keyboard, likewise.”

She eyed on to her right and spotted the slipper fins a blue-eyed student with a swastika tattooed on his bald head was proudly displaying and vehemently added, “That is meant more for snorkeling, but we are going into the Pacific Ocean in 3 weeks from now so ensure you bring the right gear. I am sorry you need to get yourself open water fins that you must strap to your diving boots. And most importantly, get yourselves dry suits and I am not going to let you parade underneath semi-naked like a frogman.”

During the third week after classes begun, I realized in class of 40 rookies, I was performing in the top 10 while Sardar appeared the best. On a bright sunny Tuesday, the crew was divided into ten groups of four and we both boarded a green and white motorboat, turtles. We cruised along the along the La Jolla that was famous for seals and behind us the San Diego shoreline towered but none looked back in reverence. Anne, in our boat, made us revise the diver signals that we would shortly demonstrate underwater. In so far we were taught to don the diving gear and the maximum we went below was 12 feet – swimming the pool bed. I was excited and couldn’t wait to dive into the pacific.

I thought Kamal looked like one of those naval saboteurs while we signaled each other and with thumbs up dived underneath. Once inside, I sensed a transformation. Aquatic life was everywhere and the first thing we observed was silence; how the marine species over these years of evolution had managed to accept it as a part of life. A shoal of Angelfish swam undisturbed onto my right while butterfly fish floated by onto my left through dense planktons. A sea anemone taking a free ride on a hermit crab disembarked and clung onto a rock. Kamal was busy examining a sea creeper that was like the giant one in Jack and the bean stock. A lone catfish lazily drifted past me that was identifiable from its whiskers while a long serpentine slimy creature that slipped beneath the rocks was undoubtedly the eel.

That night, we couldn’t contain our excitement and called our room mates and after hearing our deep-sea episode, we could picture them turning green and they screamed back saying a giant squid is probably on the prowl somewhere.

“Jelly fish huh? Wait until you guys are groped by one of those Portuguese man-of-wars.”

In the following weeks, we deftly handled the pressure valve to maintain the same pressure in our ears as the surrounding waters. The aqualung we carried sustained water up to 3 hours and the buoyancy control device, which we could use well now, enabled us to be leveled and enjoy our dive. Of course we began violating rules and the first instruction we flouted was by touching aquatic animals. We were warned not to touch any animals but held turtles, manatees, of course, definitely not the sea urchins. Our course completed in three months and we were certified as intermediary divers. My only regret was not having met a dolphin to which I had strongly desired feeding seaweed.

I paused and dreamily gazed at the billion starts that appeared crystal clear due to lack of pollution in Africa and took a gulp of whiskey from my flask. I scowled and scratched the back of my arm that was attacked by a swarm of mosquitoes. Abdul arranged 5 plates adjacent to the fire and our meal comprising grilled chicken and lamb smelled like heaven.

“Delicious,” I uttered with my mouth stuffed while Kasim eagerly gesticulated for me to get on with the narration. I proceeded.

In the following year, we had taken advanced lessons and now could dive anywhere in the world provided we displayed our certificate and the correct equipment. Of course, our aquatic forays off-season was limited to the swimming pool where we merely worked on our fitness. Our under sea exploration continued in the Atlantic along the coasts of Florida and the Caribbean Tropical waters. The greatest adventure, needless to sea, occurred at the diver’s paradise – the Great Barrier Reef, which contained enormous species of marine life ranging from softest harmless fish found in aquariums to wild ones inclusive of great white and the hammer head sharks.

A distant cry of a wildebeest on the southern side behind the Acacia trees momentarily stopped my narration, making me wonder whether a leopard was on the prowl stalking it. I continued. Just as were planning on diving off the coasts of Gibraltar, Kamal was summoned to Amritsar, his native town where his immediate family lived, as his father was terminally ill and was on deathbed. His father battled cancer in his pancreas but died shortly after Kamal reached there. He was in grief and needed comfort and therefore requested me to visit him, so I decided to use my vacation time this time in giving him support instead of diving.

After his father’s last rites had been performed, Kamal surprised me by saying he desired to visit native town close to Lahore and Wagah. Saawalpur, a small town where his ancestors had once thrived on agriculture, was where he wished I travel along with him. Having come all the way there, I thought why not? One more place I’ll be stepping on mother earth. We decided to take the morning bus to Wagah where we’d change another to reach Saawalpur.

In the morning, a rickety bus took us on a bumpy ride from Wagah, which was to the south east of Lahore, further southwest towards Saawalpur. The bus barely contained ten people who all appeared liked dullards. “How far are we?” I meekly asked an elderly corpulent man chewing tobacco on to my left who leaned across and spat outside my window. I held my breath as I saw the red arc that flashed out. “A couple hours,” he hoarsely whispered. While I carried my overnight backpack, Kamal had two and I began worrying if he had secret intentions of spending a fortnight there. We had earlier agreed on not staying there for more than two days.

Saawalpur wasn’t much of a tourist attraction or a place where we one could feel nostalgic about I felt, but Kamal appeared pensive, yet excited. The bus stopped, U-turned and left us stranded on a narrow dirt road surrounded by cornfields on both sides when I glimpsed a tube-well onto my right beneath an old bulbul tree. Ahead was a small knoll that was covered with shrubs and a few rare deciduous trees I didn’t know.

“Stone Age would barely seem a century away to the villagers,” I muttered.

“What till you get to the main square,” Kamal began protesting.

“Let’s follow the peasants who had gotten down with us,” I said, as I couldn’t spot any Tonga or a Rickshaw.

After twenty minutes we noticed the all roads merging into a central location into what appeared a town square and observed activity there, my vision settling on a squalid teashop.

“Civilization at last. Let’s get some tea first,” Kamal said elated.

What the hell are you going to do now?” I remarked sipping on hot tea not quite attentive to Kamal as I eyed a peasant whacking an old decrepit camel, fluid oozing from its nostrils. I noticed an eclectic assortment of candies sealed in glass bottles set on the shelves while bananas, apples, and sealed fried eatables hung from nylon ropes. Upon closer inspection, I found that the tea stall was more of a mini grocery store and along with sacks of rice, the shop also carried soaps, combs, brushes.

“I guess they got a K Mart in your neighborhood,” I smirked.

Ignoring me, Kamal extracted and unfolded a blank sheet of paper that was twice the regular A4 sized ones and peered over what seemed like an ancient parchment with irregularly drawn lines and marked letterings. Upon closer inspection, I incredulously stared at it concluding he was holding a hand drawn map of Saawalpur.

“Now what, you found this of the web?” I asked sarcastically.

“You’re looking at the town as remembered by my father who had a photographic memory. After all, isn’t it not my father’s wish? He expressed desire that I visit this place some time, before he died. That is why I called you. I hope things haven’t changed a lot after the partition. I didn’t know any sentimental phrases to attach to my reply but was rescued when a petite guy with black horn rimmed spectacles whose frame borders seemed larger than the lens appeared before us.

“Brother you need help?” he asked exhaling smoke from his beedi and peered over the map. He excitedly pointed to the hand-drawn contents and recognized the town center, the bus stop, and the post office. He indicated where we were standing approximately on the map and also identified the large well and the community hall.

I replied, “We are new to the town and wanted to check into a motel,” could you guide us? He said, “Unfortunately, the town doesn’t have any motels or inns, but instead visitors either stayed over either of the two mosques or the gurudwara.” Kamal asked, “How far is the gurudwara?”

Make a right at the newly white washed house down there and walk until you see a neem tree onto your left. Four blocks further, you’ll see a huge barren land where kids will be playing. The giant mansion overlooking the ground is the Gurudwara. A ten-minute walk led us a white building with large doors and huge seemingly ancient knockers that we used to announce our arrival. A bearded old guy with spectacles precariously perched on his nose warily approached us and Kamal greeted him, “Sat Sri Akal,” and he ushered us in. Inside we were informed we could stay there overnight free, of course, it was tacitly understood that a suitable contribution, rather donation, would enable them to maintain the Gurudwara.

We were shown our quarters and I had a quick bath by doling mugs of water from a rusted iron bucket and shivered while I toweled myself. I stepped out and found that Kamal had initiated the conversation with Satwinder Singh, the man who let us in, whom I assumed was the priest who ran the place and was startled to learn that he knew all of Kamal’s relatives, including his dad. Apparently, his father had been in touch with him regularly by mail and he shed a couple tears expressing condolences.

Drinking a glass of fresh buffalo milk, Kamal smilingly said, “Let us begin our reconnaissance and breathe some real air.”

“You know something? I regret not bringing the aqualung. God knows what I am going to be afflicted with when I leave this goddamn place.”

We walked to the town post office where the senior postman became ecstatic to meet Kamal. I was stunned by the ribaldry the cashier was exchanging with a man carrying a bundle of clothes slung on his shoulder whom I assumed was a washer man. After a good thirty minutes, Kamal was satisfied and we visited both the mosques the town contained and as I had guessed Kamal knew no one there. It was 2.00 and the sun was scorching as I sweltered and slapped my forehead in haste trying to avoid beads of sweat trickle down my eyes.

During the course of the afternoon and early evening, Kamal met nearly most of his father’s close friends and we were happy to return to the Gurudwara. Satwinder Singh had cooked a pleasant meal and had been waiting for our return at the gurudwara. Being famished, I was in no mood to begin conversation and immediately attacked the plate stacked with 5 circular chappatis, pickle, onions, and raw-green chillis. I didn’t care if others would watch me while I dunked the chappatis into daal and buttermilk soup and noisily chewed.

Yawning, I said, “A lot wind blowing today, I guess, so let us not close the door. Trip’s been not bad at all I must admit. Not much of a difference in the way they lead their lives here in comparison to your relatives, even though we expected it.”

Kamal lay to my right and immediately fell asleep as I begun thinking about the bus ride, inhabitants of the town, the gurudwara, and his friends. His father must have been a remarkable man no doubt I concluded, after observing the respect the town folks had for him. I smiled as I pictured him dictate and describe the landscape of the town and the different places in it while Kamal took down notes and drew the map. No one would plan a vacation the way Kamal had, even if were to visit a place his forbears once ruled, I concluded. Somehow I got the vague feeling he had been here before. Or was he really that smart to memorize a map and understand the bearings of a town? He had been uneasy when I talked about the well today afternoon when I suggested we take a dip to cool ourselves. He quickly talked me out of it and I wondered if it was haunted or whether any of his relatives had committed suicide in it.

My eyelids wouldn’t wait any longer and I dropped down dead on the mattress and began dreaming. A scraping sound woke me up in the middle of the night and my right hand traced through empty space atop Kamal’s bed. Alarmed, I opened my eyes and noticed him exiting the room. Perhaps he’s gone to drink water or take a leak I surmised, when I noticed his second bag missing. I panicked wondering if he’s going to leave me stranded in the town.

Noiselessly, I exited the room and spotted him leave the courtyard, which was surrounded on three sides with guest rooms, kitchen, and the office, and exit through the back entrance. I tiptoed to the edge of the door and peered outside when I heard sounds of rummaging and seconds later a clicking sound turned on a flashlight. I saw the dim outline of his receding figure fade into dark but was aware from the noise that he had cut across the weedy section on the back yard and was walking towards the flat grassy terrain. The skies were clear with a million stars and the moon shone bright and as I stepped outside, I could observe Kamal walk with quick paced steps and the light emanating from the swaying torch creating patterns on the fields. Situated about 100 yards from the Gurudwara, along the direction he was heading, was the well, the huge one indicated in the map that seemed like the only attraction at the silent town. It was this well that he was against us swimming that afternoon.

I didn’t walk in the open fields directly but skulked through rows of trees onto my left maintaining sufficient distance between us. He stopped near the well and I strained my eyes to get a good vision of what he was attempting and could see him empty the contents of the bag and spend the next fifteen minutes donning on the aquatic gear; dry suits, helmets, flippers, and weighted belts.

“Holy mother of god! He was talking a dive into the well, I exclaimed.”

A splash was heard and I leaned backwards onto a banyan tree, the upward roots giving me extra protection in remaining invisible. I stood there for a good half hour of what seemed like eternity. From the same spot behind the Banyan tree, I spotted Kamal emerge dripping wet as he pulled the walls of the well and dropped flat to the floor. He lay down tired for a few minutes gasping. So much for his lung capacity, I thought. I crawled through the grass and the gap between us lowered to less than 20 yards. I watched him gulp water and empty the contents of the water bottle before throwing it back into the well.

Patiently, he removed his flippers, aqua-lung and other diving gear and stowed them away into his bag. His hands shook as he fished out his prize that he had safely secured in an oilskin bag some minutes before. I could see what resembled a bible was a casket made of metal, the lid fastened by a lock I assumed. Kamal hammered open the box and slowly lifted the lid. I covered my mouth in shock as I watched blue, green and multicolored precious stones gleam in stillness of the night. The precious stones were his family heirloom and during partition, his father I reckoned safely deposited the jewels under the refuge of the well. They were lying deep down ever since patiently waiting to be rescued. Indeed, he had satisfied his father’s desire.

The Ace in a Loop Hole

2005-07-13T13:28:00.000-07:00

Samuel Anthony Creedy shifted uneasily from the balcony staring at the setting sun behind the tall Willow trees that bordered river Liffey. He hung his tall frame over the rails of the 12^th floor balcony of the Burlington Hotel deep in thought, as he released rings of smoke that curled up and disintegrated in the twilight air.

Sam was a 6 foot tall burly white skinned American with sand-colored hair and long legs. He often prided himself over his well-built shoulders and forearms as all these years amidst chaos and pressure at work, he always managed to squeeze in quality time at his office gym where he had sculpted his upper body, the biceps, torso, and all other major muscle groups.

Recalling his years, Sam vividly remembered graduating from Harvard Business School with an MBA. Being a recipient of the prestigious Magna Cum Laude, Sam easily got into McKinsey and at it was there at the beginning of his career where he averaged a minimum of 100 hours per week sacrificing sleep, hobbies, and social life. After six productive years, Sam was promoted as the regional resource manager, which he felt wasn’t satisfactory for a man of his talent, experience, and capabilities. Therefore it was expected that he quit McKinsey and join Novagen Laboratories, a pharmaceutical start up that employed 30 people managing a rough annual turn over of two million dollars.

He continued to work unabatedly and in four years Novagen’s annual budget reported an excess of 25 million dollars in its turn over. At the age of 37, Sam momentarily glimpsed satisfaction when he became the vice president of Novagen before he crafted his next set of immediate goals. It was a marvel that his wife hadn’t left him.

Sam, who always held a strong sense of work ethic, patiently bore afflictions he encountered from egoistic partners and business associates, and never retaliated. He used other ruthless ways to fire inefficient employees who would never have imagined this cold-blooded side of Sam that was well veiled beneath his cheerful countenance. However, if at all there was any one he hated presently, it was his boss William Harry Kramer, the chairman of Novagen. Right from day one, they had multiple differences in opinion and Sam still felt that had it not been for Will as the ultimate deciding authority, Novagen would have grossed 50 million by now. Many a lucrative deals were often turned down by William much to the consternation of Sam. Recently, Will declined a 200 million dollar merger with Johnson and Johnson that made Sam livid who would have otherwise cashed in on his shares after Novagen became public. His dreams of retiring and settling down in Dakar, Senegal were scuttled.

And now he was in an Irish hotel, on a business trip. It was getting dark and he thought of eating out that evening. Taking a quick shower, he donned a charcoal solid double-breasted suit that was a loose fit and ran low all the way to his lower thigh, while a twin pleat plain bottom khaki trousers ensured he wasn’t excessively formal. Deciding to go easy on his tie, Sam tied the shoelaces of his after-six formal black shoes and walked down the stairs in an effort to burn down the second helping of the grilled chicken breast sandwich that he had rejoiced at lunch.

Making a right onto O ‘Connell Street, Sam felt his forehead break into beads of sweat in the humid Irish climate that was a little intolerable even after sunset. Whistling to an old ragtime tune, he walked two blocks downhill and turned right onto Sussex Avenue where an italicized neon lighted Beckets, Irish bar and Restaurant signboard greeted his eyes. The bar wasn’t crowded and a blonde freckle-faced teenage waitress whose firm outline was well defined by her tightly clad apron easily spotted Sam.

Her cheeks became florid when she smiled and asked him, “What would you like today sir?”

Sam ordered Scotch whiskey, Chivas Regal, with extra ice for starters not taking his eyes of her hazel brown eyelashes. It didn’t take long for Sam to finish and enter his second round when he picked the Wild Turkey, American whiskey. Forty-five minutes later, the place was swelling with a medley of well-dressed businessmen, tired countrymen, teenage punks, and crones.

He nodded to a pot-bellied short statured man whose cheek appeared swollen and cancerous, perhaps due to excessive smoking who upon entering crossed Sam and took the table ahead of him. Soon, a hawk-nosed slovenly dressed man with unkempt hair and loose trousers made a beeline towards Sam’s neighbor.

They didn’t take care to keep their voices low and Sam could easily eavesdrop on the hawk-nosed man’s nasal tone, not that he was saying anything interesting. Apparently he was a car dealer and was cursing the Irish weather for poor sales and soon they drifted into European politics when Sam’s concentration was severed. He almost got up when the fat slob’s attention caught him.

“I’ve heard he is the best marksman in Dublin, perhaps the best in Europe. Never misses his aim”

“Right, had he been born twenty years earlier, he would have blown Charles De Gaulle’s brains off.”

“He hasn’t surfaced over in two years and last he was on Irish times was when Mark Stromberg was slugged in his head at Hyde Park in Foxrock.”

“I’ve heard he could shoot blindfolded”

Sam changing his decision signaled the waitress and ordered a steak and Guinness pie with a side order of club salad and a large Johnny Walker whiskey with no ice. Over the next three fourths of the hour, Sam’s attention was singular and taking care he learnt that the marksman was an assassin who went by the name Vulture. But for the mafia, no one knew his whereabouts and all special forces throughout Europe and America wanted him. What strikingly caught Sam’s attention was Vulture’s ability to not miss his mark when shooting at his victims from anywhere within half a mile.

After the two men left, Sam got up with a slight headache. He paid the bill and ambled towards the hotel. His hatred for Will had grown significantly over the past two years. Reaching his suite, he stripped himself off the suit and was naked except for his long checked pajamas. He grew restless and after repeated futile attempts of fixing his mind on a channel, he shut off the television. Interlacing his fingers behind the neck, Sam began devising a plot to get rid Will. It is obvious, he cognized, that I hunt down Vulture and hire him to terminate Will at a suitable location where his body could be easily disposed without any traces for the cops. He fixed himself more whisky on the rocks while he worked on the Machiavellian schemes

Sun soon found its way through the curtains and began illuminating the room while Sam was still preoccupied in his thoughts. Cursing his lack of sleep, he rose, got ready, and drove to work. Novagen had an office in Castleknock Ireland, a little west from central Dublin. At work, Sam’s current single track thought on Vulture continued while he absentmindedly kept knocking the white porcelain ash tray, painted with green Chinese dragons, on his mahogany desk. He visited Ireland frequently on business and aside work, he was very familiar with restaurants, exotic bars, and tourist places in Dublin. While dealing with clients, or during inter-city travel, or when drinking in bars, he bumped into a number of interesting people, some of whom he made friends with. It was during one of these encounters he had made friends with a fisherman who went by the name Toller. Charlie Hastings was his real name and he ran a small business of renting boats and fishing on the seafront suburbs of Dublin at a place called Killiney. Toller was quite famous in the seafront side and although his business seemed harmless, Sam was well aware of his nefarious activities. Often smuggled goods were shipped into his mini harbor during night. If at all there was anyone whom he could reach and obtain information on Vulture, it was Toller. However, Sam in so far, had limited his dealings with him to just purchase of marijuana for social parties.

His slender thin-waisted secretary, Anne, made a noisy entrance and disturbed Sam from his deep thoughts.

“Please cancel all appointments for today, I have some important work to attend to.”

Grabbing his coat, Sam walked down six floors and climbed into his olive green Mercedes SLK 350 convertible and in fifteen minutes he passed City Center and drove by the Dublin bay towards Killiney. A fresh gust of sea breeze drove his hair back. His receding hairline breaking forth from its disguise came into view and he subconsciously pushed his fair forward. Upon entering the store, Sam acknowledged to the owl-eyed cashier who had a broken teeth and asked him for Toller.

Sam was escorted to the pier and Toller, who seemed to be cleaning barnacles off a mini sea boat Sea Eagles, beamed upon making eye contact with Sam and after pleasantries were exchanged, he chortled

“What can I do for you Sam? Supplies for your social gathering?”

Ignoring his remark Sam spoke, “I need some information on Vulture.”

Toller became serious, and grabbing Sam on his back, he pulled him towards his office.

“I have heard of Vulture, from local seamen gossip, but what makes you think I know of him?”

Pulling a check for five thousand dollars from his wallet, Sam placed it on the desk with a loud thud.

“I will give you another five thousand after you lead me to vulture.”

Toller gulped and stared at the check open mouthed and no conversation happened for a few minutes. Sam lighted a cigarette and offered one to Toller.

“Sam, you’re out of your mind. I am sorry I cannot help you.”

Their conversation continued for a while and drifted towards general events pertaining to their lives. Sam stood up, “Keep the check with you and think over tonight. Here is a private number to reach me and give me an answer by tomorrow morning. He exited the shop and inspected the car for any signs of pilferage, as you wouldn’t normally park a Mercedes in decrepit sections of the society.

Next morning at work, inside his room, Sam sat staring at the giant group photograph that was framed and occupied nearly half the right side wall. In that photograph, Will was flashing his teeth, while his wife Marie had her fat arm looped across his neck. Onto his left was Sam with a hunting rifle while a few other echelons that worked at Novagen surrounded them. Behind, was nailed a stuffed overgrown male reindeer with brown and sinewy antlers that snaked above and over the fireplace, the vision being slightly blurred by the smoke emanating from a raging fire. Three years back all prominent delegates of Novagen were in Dublin on a business convention and on the Friday of that week, all of them convened at a private mansion they called Chateau De Chimera. The photograph was taken during that dinner.

The chateau, owned by Novagen, had long hallways that supported nineteen huge rooms whose walls were expansive and seemed to run forever like the great wall in China. Two huge brown chimneys, barely visible between two large oaks that bent towards each other at an odd angle, towered over the palatial structure giving the chateau an appearance of a castle; only that instead of a surrounding moat, Lake Claire gleamed 20 feet from the chateau’s entrance.

Sam jumped when a ring on a private line disturbed him and he heard the shrill voice of Toller on the other end that was hushed.

“On Friday after 11.00 pm, in the town Dalkey, at the intersection between Steven’s Avenue and Crossford Street make a right and you’ll see an old warehouse. Park your car and walk back to the rear fence. Further, please come alone and unarmed. You don’t know how dangerous the people whom you’re dealing with are. A liaison that will tip you about Vulture’s whereabouts will find you. And from there on, you’re by yourself and I am out of it.”

Sam drove towards the rendezvous a little early and calmed himself preparing to take any possible risk. At 11.02 pm, he heard a sharp voice asking him not to turn but raise his hands. Two beefy hands groped him from behind and relaxed after searching and finding Sam unarmed. Sam turned and found that he was staring into a huge 6-6 blond giant whose pockmarks were like craters in the moon; his red moustache was frail and his hair wispy, while a metallic chain gleamed in the moonlight.

Sam started, finding difficulty in forming words, “Do you know Vulture?”

The giant’s hands, which appeared hidden behind his tweed jacket, arched forward and raced towards Sam’s temple when Sam saw the glint coming from a Colt 0.32 semi-automatic.

“Listen, I do the talking,” the giant cut him off.

Sam was asked a few questions on how he learnt about Vulture and when the giant realized he was being honest relaxed the gun. Sam quickly pulled out a photograph of Will playing tennis from his jacket pocket and displayed it to the giant.

“I need help in killing this person. I am beginning my offer with fifty thousand U.S dollars and will give you another fifty after accomplishing the mission, however, if your party feels dissatisfied, I am willing to negotiate. That is all I have for you now.

The giant replied, “At this time, all I can reveal to you is Vulture can be reached. You will be contacted within two weeks and intimated on our decision. Do not try something foolish like following or trying to contact me. I will be watching you. Now face the fence and stay on for another fifteen minutes after which you may leave. Don’t attempt to do anything silly”

The giant left and Sam stood there shivering unsure whether it was due to the chill or the vengeance he bore towards Will. He returned to his hotel thinking, on the second week of January, Will would be present at Dublin to sign the contract with Proctor Associates. Further, whenever such a profitable transaction occurred in Europe, Will always flew to Ireland and celebrated at the chateau for at least a weekend and this time it would be the second Saturday of the month. Yes, Will must be terminated that day. The next plan of action was to drive down to the chateau.

Lying on the bed the same night, Sam smiled and envisioned everything about Will who had grown in Dublin and studied his initial few years there before his family had migrated to the US. Although he was a businessman in the US, he still found European clients and mingled with the elite classes in Dublin. He still had relatives and friends in plenty in Ireland. Well, it is definitely imperative that he perish in Ireland, Sam thought hideously, even better in his own chateau.

The foothills of Wicklow Mountains was an hour’s drive from Dublin city and on a sunny day, Sam had the cover off in his convertible as he drove, marveling the surrounding valley and the lone eagle that was soaring in the sky. Arching his neck towards his right, he had a glimpse of river Liffey gurgle when an approaching tunnel obstructed his vision. Sam had no idea how many go-betweens there were before the giant was linked to Vulture, but counted on his trust towards Toller.

Emerging from the tunnel, the ascent towards the mansion had begun and Sam dreamed. The plot was ugly but outcome rewarding and Will deserved it, a ruthless idiot he was, with inexorable demands he always placed on his immediate staffs. It wasn’t just one instance when Sam’s brilliance was stamped and extinguished. He would take over and turn Novagen into a billion dollar company. The rustic slopes, rushing brooks, and thick trunk elk trees that the tortuous drive offered couldn’t penetrate Sam’s raging mind.

Reaching Chateau De Chimera, he opened his trunk and inside was hidden a brown 7 mm magnum which after strapping to his shoulders, Sam marched and began his reconnaissance. First, he marched to the back of the mansion, where the grass sloped downhill from the back door and emptied into the dense vegetation comprising tall cedar, maple, spruce, and cottonwood trees. He could see the cellar door adjacent to the room where they stocked firewood. Opening the door, he climbed down the stairs and flicked on the light switch. A pack of rats scurried across and he scowled dancing on his toes in an attempt to avoid stepping on them. Three large barrels lay flushed to the left walls and quickly poising behind the cabinet onto his right, he could get a good view of the taps. Hmm, not a bad place to take a shot he mused aiming at one of the wine barrels with his rifle. However, he thought for a second, and figured that the chances of Will coming down to the cellar seemed bleak and quickly changing his mind he walked out

The chateau walls ran irregular and he could approximate the perimeter to a rectangle with the northern end, which had the front door, a hand’s throw from Lake Claire. The kitchen faced the eastern side and a small deck, where barbecue parties were held, had a few run down chairs and tables, and almost touching its wooden floor was the branch of an elm tree angling down. Behind, a grassy stretch devoid of trees continued until he could detect a faint array of trees that dotted the horizon. He hid behind the elm tree and took aim at the refrigerator inside the kitchen. This was an option he conceded.

The driveway, made of asphalt, continued parallel to the Lake and veered off towards the western side, which had the main road about half a mile and in between were dense trees again. He braced himself on a rock and took aim and most of the curtains were pulled low except the patio that was visible through glass doors inside which he could see a small mattress used for sunbathing.

The paddle lock itself would have weighed a ton and Sam furnished a half-foot key to unlock the giant door making a mental note to duplicate the key for Vulture. Inside the chateau, the hall looked like a cinema hall minus the chairs and was well furnished with expensive upholstery, the walls containing exotic paintings while the windows were well draped with turquoise blue satin curtains. A giant divan containing cushions embroidered with scorpions partially blocked the fireplace, which he figured was not in use during summer. He hid behind the divan inside the fire place and took aim all the way to the other end at a miniature structure that appeared well shrunk so much so that when he used his telescope, he gasped for it was a Steinway grand piano, one of those rare expensive acoustic instruments, and his eyes traced up an octave on the key of G. He hummed to Beethoven’s sixth symphony and considered getting Will, who often flaunted with his piano skills during those get-togethers to charm some women clad in minks, shot there. A second option.

He found a few other strategic locations where Vulture could hide and shoot but he still hadn’t found one quite to his liking, so deciding he would come back later for a second survey, he ran up the stairs skipping alternate ones and paused at the landing. He entered the master bedroom, a misnomer as all rooms seemed alike and spacious, and looked around. The windows faced Lake Claire and he saw the beech tree. He didn’t make much progress upstairs.

It was 4.30 pm and a couple hours before sunset and Sam deciding to hunt down his dinner, took his rifle and stepped out. Of the two possibilities of arriving to the chateau, one was by road and the other by riding across the lake from another town. He walked towards the pier and noticed its wooden posts being gently lapped by the waves of Lake Claire. He sunk his foot into the soft sands beneath the surface and waded towards the huge beech tree whose trunks were precariously perched on the banks. He suddenly stopped fearing that he may have heard something. He could just detect a high-pitched grating noise made by insects preparing to turn in for the night. He heard a crackle again and this time it startled him. He feverishly looked around with his rifle and then spotted it; it was a deer drinking water fifty feet onto to his left.

“Aha, tonight I’m celebrating with venison”, he exclaimed and shot the deer, the bullet finding its mark and the excitement causing him to fall onto the water that was knee deep.

He lay stunned and before he got up he glanced at Will’s bedroom through the tall reeds. He pulled his 7 mm magnum rifle and peered through the cross wire of his lens. He took aim and through the telescope observed a blurred image, due to his unsteady shaky hands, of the couch, the wall portrait of Simon Bolivar, a bed, a lamp, the dormer, and the sloping roof. That was it, the best position in terms of getting a good angle. He would move the table lamp away and put the recliner next to the window where Will would hopefully sit and do something like light reading. Vulture would kill him there.

Sam finished his dinner and was inside Will’s bedroom, he was now sitting on the recliner adjacent to the window and was drinking his fourth can of beer. Alcohol was dimming his vision, for it wasn’t the same that had pictured the room through the telescope two hours earlier from underneath the beech tree and beneath the pier. Likewise, again, it was from the same vision, another eye was observing Sam, from a distance; an acute eye that was well focused and far experienced being well supported by much steadier hands. The eye closed and its vision converged from the bedroom, Sam, and the couch; to Sam in his couch; to Sam; to his side burns; and finally rested on his temple. The dot in the cross wire did not shift coordinates and the image lay still except for the throbbing of Sam’s temple as it pulsated along with the heartbeat. The fingers closed on the trigger and a shot rang out, not from a 7mm magnum but a 0.50 BMG that found its aim and shattered the stillness of the night.

Early in the morning at 4.00 a.m. a call was placed from Denver Colorado to Dublin city from a public telephone. Recognizing the voice, the receiving end answered:

“Vulture here - terminated.”

A momentary silence ensued. Taking a deep breath the caller added, “Today by mid noon, the remaining 100 thousand Euros will be deposited into your account. You shall in no way try to contact me henceforth.”

Slamming the receiver in the cradle, Will breathed a sigh of satisfaction and walked towards his metallic silver BMW roadster in the freezing snow. He decided to celebrate with scrambled eggs, bacon, and hot coffee at Jim’s Steak house, the only joint where he could rejoice at that ungodly hour.

Uma

2005-07-13T12:46:00.000-07:00

It was already Sunday evening and I felt I had wasted away the weekend accomplishing nothing. I was preparing myself to experience the ordeal the following week. After a quick dinner of blue berries, cereals, and grape fruit, I still had an hour to kill before sleeping.

Opening my computer, I logged on to AOL and heard a ping as my yahoo messenger automatically came alive. Scanning for latest updates at the rediff and CNN, I subconsciously opened the chat site in yahoo and peered through Washington DC room. I was yawning and staring at the screen, bored, when “Uma_lagoon” entered the room. I jumped and suddenly felt spirited wondering if this woman would reply to my pinging.

“Hey, Wassup?” I typed and was immediately reciprocated with

“Nothing much, where from and what do you do?”

My subconscious mind was already busy trying to find out more details about her by visiting her profile, but to my disappointment, she had left it blank with no photograph.

First, I began asking if she was an Indian, not that it mattered, but just to conjure the right image of her in my mind. I tried imagining her through different attractive females, both self-created and adapted ones such as movie characters. Interestingly, even the countenance of Uma Thurman zipped past my mind. It turned out that she was an Indian and by default, my next question was if she was from India. “Yes, I am originally from Bangalore, but did my graduate studies in Clemson, and you?” By then the conversation had proceeded beyond the introduction routine and I learnt that she was a software engineer working in Reston.

My experience with software engineers had been with those who lived in warrens, sharing their room with 5 other people, with intentions of saving money. I began losing interest in her and my eyes focused on the report discussing the ‘Timber wolves’ and ‘Kings’ game. “What do you do Uma, in general, other than working, especially on weekends,” I typed. “I try to utilize my time effectively on weekends and do something worthwhile.” Yah, right!! Like manicuring your fingernails or going and doing some window-shopping at the JC Penny I felt. “So, what is your way of enjoyment, especially on weekends?” For a woman, Uma surprisingly typed fast; in the sense my observation was for every woman there were 3 men in the same chat room and therefore, the slow response. As it was a Sunday night, I guessed none other men were bothering her on the chat room and that way she was able to devote her time completely into me.

Uma typed, “I love watching and playing sports and recently I have developed movie watching skills. I love reading books as well. Somehow, I hate doing groceries or other chores that have no meaning towards life other than helping one in survival.” For a moment I couldn’t believe my eyes. What she had typed wasn’t normal for an average woman I felt, and the way she described her existence was exactly how I perceived one must live. This person was in a way very similar to me. Wow!!! I remarked, “That is remarkable.” I didn’t want to type in “Yah, it is so uncommon for a girl” and offend her.

We discussed a few good movies including “I am Sam,” “Radio,” and “An officer and a gentleman.” We also recounted incidents from the best sellers and somehow the hour passed by within seconds. Uma bid me good-bye at 10.00, as she had to wake up early. “Hey, can I add you in my friends list and also email you? I really liked your company and could definitely learn more about your interests?” “Sure go ahead, I’ll also add your id.” We parted and I knew I was going to dream well that night.

I had an incredible week at work and my mind was fixed on Uma and I performed my work without a sense of attachment. I would have caused Krishna to envy me, as I don’t think any of his devotees can so perfectly execute their duties detached.

I saw her again the following Saturday and I wanted to chat with her longer. Her subtle image, my creation of her within me, was blaring in my heart and I could see the person through the chat window. My perception of her as a woman of my tastes had blossomed fully over the course of the week and my mind was resonating with her voice.

“So Uma, how was your week and what did you do?” “Don’t ask me, I hated my work and my boss can be so mean at times and I felt he was taking advantage of my sincerity.” Immediately wild thoughts of her boss messing with her and perhaps pawing her hit me and I was already seething. “Don’t worry Uma, ignore him and I guess you’ll be alright.” “Yah, so let us discuss something else please.” Although originally from Bangalore, Uma was a Tamilian much to my delight and her ancestors were all based in Mylapore. “Did I tell you, I like playing and I was in my high-school badminton team.” I like it, I thought, and asked her if she continued playing here. “Yah, I have a few friends and we play tennis. In fact, the other day, I defeated my friend Rohit.” Ooh!! She can take on guys and thrash them. I told her I ran on Saturdays and Sundays and played tennis in the evenings. “That is nice, I ran the 5K race last weekend in DC.” My heart suddenly stopped beating. I suddenly felt weak within and her image within me sharpened to a goddess. One that can crush your ego and make you feel weak and puny.

One part of my mind said, “Dude!!! Don’t even think about it. Forget it and get going with your life.” I badly wanted to ask her how old she was and if she had her picture online. I feared she might get offended and thus I stuck to trivial issues. She seemed a very nice girl and simple. “I love cooking too and I have been doing so since my 9^th grade,” she said. That isn’t uncommon for a girl, especially from the south. I was sure they would have forced her into doing it. We discovered that we liked camping, and other outdoor activities including white water rafting and canoeing. I was slowly getting the feeling of inviting her on a date and meet her. “Oops, it is 2.00am already. I had better be going. If you don’t have anything better to do tomorrow afternoon, why don’t you come online,” she remarked.” Had I been with her in person, I would have muttered something unintelligible being tongue-tied, but fortunately I was online and chatting.

I woke up late and felt groggy. I wasn’t a drinker and I had to get that communicated across somehow to build up my reputation. I had a quick lunch and went online at 2.00. “Yo!! Uma, did you sleep well.” “I guess I did. After all, remember, I had chatted with you before I hit the bed.” I felt my insides imploding and I felt warmth when I heard that statement. You know Uma, I have chatted with you only for a week, but I was wondering if, you know, could meet for dinner next week. “You know, I thought the same too. So how about meeting at Mumbai Tandoor at Tysons?” I hated eating at Indian restaurant as them make you so full. But I didn’t want to disturb the set up. After all patience wins, they say. As though reading my mind, she began typing, “I personally don’t have a problem eating anywhere if Indian doesn’t sound very appealing.” “No not at all, that is fine, so let us meet there as discussed.” “What would you like she asked me? I feel like getting something for you.” This girl seemed totally different and I felt, wow!!! This cannot be true. “No, I am alright and of course, since I invited you for the date, the bill will be on me.” I said I would wear a pair of blue jeans and white T-shirt.

She said she would come wearing a black t-shirt and jeans, and for easy recognition, sneakers – Nike. “Hey, how tall are you, in case I find you hard to locate.” “I am 5-9 and medium built,” she said. No wonder she is a sportswoman I thought. “All right, let us meet at 7.00 the coming Friday, good knowing you Uma, take care,” and I signed off.

Needless to say, the week went even better and I was at high spirits much to the discomfort of my boss. I dreamed about her every minute and I have learnt the scriptures advocating the worship goddess Uma for getting a beautiful wife. For a moment, I was tempted to do that, but I hated trading devotion to assets and thus didn’t do it. I went to work early that day and left home by 4.00. Taking care, I made sure I appeared well dressed and decent. I meditated for a few moments on how I must approach and what must I talk. Fortunately, since Uma was different, I somehow felt confident I could talk to her well and wouldn’t be ill at ease.

I reached there at 6.45 and nobody was there. I took my table at the corner between the kitchen and the bar and taking a deep breath, I focused on the door. And then at 6.45, I made out the silhouette of the blue jeans and black t-shirt. I focused on the feet first and noted the Nike. I shifted my gaze to the T-shirt and long legs and her legs were incredibly long indeed. Her T-shirt, well!! Something was amiss. I redirected my gaze to her shoes and something was odd. Her shoes seemed like those of Shaquille-O- Neal’s for a woman. Her shoulders were bulging and muscular and I panicked when I saw her face. There appeared to be a pencil shade of mustache and as she approached me closer I covered my hands over my face. God!!!! It was a guy.

He appeared towards me and asked, “excuse me, have you seen a girl walk in?” “Are you Uma_lagoon,” I asked. He was speechless and for moment and we didn’t talk. Then he gathered courage and introduced himself. I am Umashankar. It then occurred to me that my profile had “21 female” as I used to disguise myself online. “I saw your profile and was shy to ask your name, he added.” Your id began with div and I thought you were Divya. We suddenly burst into laughter and decided to go elsewhere. Parking our cars at the metro station, we took a cab to DC. We sloshed ourselves at a bar as we recounted our previous two-week episodes.

The Scene Plotter

2005-07-13T12:21:00.000-07:00

The Brachiosaur spotted me behind the shrubs and made its way towards my direction. Oh my god! I screamed within. I was counting my final few breaths and heard bells chiming in heaven. Drat! It was my cell phone ringing at 5.45 a.m. and I picked up to hear, “Agent Smith!!”

“Agent Carl,” I replied. “Isn’t today a Saturday morning?” I mumbled.

”Yah better pick yourself up, we need you at the FBI building in 45 min.”

“Well, remember I got a 35 min commute,” I replied and hung up.

Dressing quickly, I was out on the beltway in 15 minutes and exited onto I-66E towards Washington D.C. It had snowed the previous night and the roads were slippery. Spotting the monument up straight ahead, I strained my neck and caught a nebulous image of the Capitol far ahead. I took a right from 9^th street onto E street and drove straight towards the J. Edgar Hoover F.B.I. Building.

Entering the lobby, I grabbed a copy of the Washington post and quickly peered over the previous night game between the Redskins and Cowboys. I took the elevator to the second floor and jogged to the conference room.

Carl was already there well dressed in a blue single breast three-button suit and pleated trousers. “Mornin Smith!!! Right on time as always huh.” I nodded and spotted an attractive European lady in her early thirties by his side.

He started, “allow me to introduce Miss Anastazia Kowalski from Poland. She is here to assist us in the cryptogram that must reach Kabul by next week.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” I retorted at Carl and shook my hands with the Polish secret agent “Morning Miss Kowalski, I am Agent Smith.”

“My pleasure and you can call me Anastazia,” she smiled as she shook hands.

Carl started, “Well Smith, I guess we have been given orders from top officials to encrypt the location of the rendezvous in the northern region of Afghanistan somewhere between Bamian and Kunduz. I am afraid any information pertaining to the location is top secret and classified and I can’t inform you at this time. With your help, we need to find an able cryptographer to encode this information so that we can pass it on to our co-workers in Afghanistan. Fortunately for us, the FBI has hunted down a cryptographer and today I’ll be giving you his location. Find out and learn as much as you can about his work and whether he’ll be useful to us.

”You mean, you have found a code breaker who could assist the FBI and the defense in solving cryptic anagrams and so forth? Hmm! Interesting!” I said.

“Well he’s rather a code maker, a scene plotter” Carl corrected “and a specialist in encrypting secret information. Given the scenario, he can completely twist the picture and confuse our enemies so that they’ll perceive a completely different plot. Finding out how authentic he is and how valuable he will be to the FBI is where you fit in. All we know right now is he is in Hagerstown and has already been informed about your forthcoming visit. Further, although Polish by origin, he is an American citizen. Regarding Anastazia, she has assisted the Polish secret service (UOP) in solving many cryptograms and being Polish she’ll be useful in communicating with the cryptographer.

I replied, “Interesting, but I would still be curious why you aren’t resorting to modern day algorithms to encode top secret information?”

“Well,” Carl said, “this information is vital and useful to wind up the Al Qaeda, and therefore at this time experts feel it is better we resort to traditional techniques. I would like you to start with Miss Anastazia in an hour. Here are the directions,” he added handing us the documents.”

Anastazia and I started heading west and merged onto I-70 W towards Hagerstown. Rolling down the windows, we couldn’t take our eyes from the surrounding scenic landscapes.

“So, Miss Anastazia, what interested you into cryptography?” I said. “Are you like as Kate Winslet in that movie Enigma?”

She started, “I am not used to American movies agent Smith,” her accent sounding funny.

“Could you educate me more on code making and so forth? That way I could enjoy the ride better,” I said.

“Sure,” she began. “Cryptography, the science of encoding valuable information dates back to 1900 B.C and were used in hieroglyphics by Egyptians as evident from some old parchments.”

“My! Why would you code something that is already a conundrum,” I interrupted.

Ignoring my remark, she continued, “this time, I guess we are approaching someone known as a classical cryptographer who’ll use a pen and a paper as opposed to algorithms as you had mentioned before. Well, there are other means to encrypt information and during World War II rotor machines were commonly used. With the advent of modern day digital data communications, far better cryptographic schemes using complex algorithms have been developed. But again, as Carl had pointed out, an expert computer hacker could break into a complex code quite easily.” Chucking, she added, “after all, Microsoft has been damaged more by hackers than were pyramids of Giza in olden days by plunderers. In addition, cryptographers must be aware of downscaling of integrated circuits, Moore’s law, and so forth as the existing code must be compatible with future generation devices”

“Wow! That was really informative. I really hope this guy turns out to be useful. By the way, do you know anything about him yet?” I said.

“Only that his name is Raphael Borowski.” She said. “I guess isn’t that why we are here today? To learn more about his work and find out how resourceful he’ll be to us?”

Exiting off the I-70, we entered Sandman lane and made a right onto Powell Avenue. A neatly painted white colored house with three French windows also containing a small lawn in the front seemed to be the right address.

We knocked on the door and a heavyset elderly looking gentleman appearing to be in his early 60’s with thick white beard opened the door and asked, “Yes, what can I do for you?”

“Agent Smith and Agent Anastazia, we are officers from the FBI and hope you’ve been informed about our visit” I said and we both shook our hands.

“Please come in, my name is Raphael Borowski,” he said and took us inside a fairly large hall well furnished with a fireplace, two white sofas and a mahogany desk. On to our right was an old grand piano, probably an acoustic one from one of the Steinways.

“Would you like to drink something? The polish Vodka - Zubrowka? Or a Krupnik, which is also a polish hot Vodka with honey.

While he was inside, fixing our drink, I couldn’t help noticing the walls that were surrounded with modern art paintings. Hey wait a minute! I thought. Far from being modern day painting, the canvasses on the walls seemed like ancient maps.

Beckoning Anastazia, I started, “Hey, it appears as though he likes encrypting information through maps and pictures. You never mentioned anything like this in the 901 level crash course you offered me in the car. And what the hell is that?” I asked pointing to the 3^rd painting above the fireplace that resembled something like a secret tunnel.

Shrugging Anastazia whispered, “I don’t know, from these paintings I gather he uses special maps or pictures to encode information. I guess this form of cryptography is new and unknown to me.

Raphael returned with three huge mugs of Vodka and looked us gazing at the maps in awe and admiration.

“Cheers! Did you do that all yourself Mr. Borowski? Very admirable” I asked sipping on the Vodka.

“I guess that is my profession,” he replied smilingly.

“Would you like to show us some of your works?” I said.

“Sure, follow me” he began and walked towards the basement door towards our left and took us down the basement. The basement had a musty smell and seemed ancient with the neon lamps giving a picture of a medieval grand hall. It was fairly huge and there were more maps than what we saw on the hall.

“What would you like me to show you? Something ancient or something modern?” He asked us.

Being intrigued by Anastasia’s explanation about the Egyptians, I immediately asked for ancient ones.

He retrieved a huge map from the right wall and set it up on the display table. “This,” he started, is a map of one of the banquet halls in Rome during Julius Caesar’s regime in 65B.C. If you notice carefully, on the right hand corner of the room, there is a trapdoor that leads into something like a secret chamber where you could hide under emergency conditions.”

He went back and brought a similar but a larger map. “This is about one of the more famous African dynasties under the rule of king Mansa Kankan Musa. This Arabian empire ruled from 14^th to 17^th century and had more than half of the world’s gold during their time. This map shows the famous Sankore University in Tombouctoo.”

He then went on to show some of his modern works and in an hour we were impressed with him and I began to think he might be our guy. Anastazia caught my eye and smiled seeming to indicate she agrees with me.

“Mr. Borowski?” I started, I guess you’ve shown us enough and first, I was wondering if you were aware of our visit?”
He looked at me questioningly giving me the feeling that I thought he was a convict and shrugged. “Not really, I guess I was tipped about your visit without having been given any reason.”

“Mr. Borowski,” began Anastazia, “we are in search of an able cryptographer for coding valuable secret information. From the little of what you’ve shown us about your work, it appears as though you encode information through maps and pictures. You’ve been impressive today afternoon and therefore, could you demonstrate some of your encrypting skills so that we could decide if you’re the right person for our group?”

“Well, I am not sure I understand you correctly Agent Anastazia.”

For a moment he frowned and gave us a confused look. Within seconds a flash of brilliance seemed to occur on his forehead and he rolled back his head laughing.

“My friends, I think a malapropism has occurred with the help of someone who is a muddle head within the FBI.” I exchanged glances with Anastazia, both of us completely bewildered.

He continued, “My friends, my profession is what is known as cartography and hence I become a cartographer – a map maker and not a cryptographer. Funny you didn’t mention the term as soon as you entered the house.”

Feeling completely ashamed, I didn’t know what to say and what to go back and report. Worse, Anastazia had jumped continents with the hope of nailing down this guy to get the job done. The FBI was already a laughing stock being unable to stop the terrorists and we wondered what the high officials will have to say when this incident leaks to the press. Reading our minds and guessing our fear, Borowski slowly began. “Do not worry Agent smith, I can sense your discomfiture. My lips are sealed and I will not sing. I have always been and will be a Republican.”

“Since you’ve come all way here, would you two like to learn about cartography? Something very general and quick?” He said

“Some other time Mr. Borowski, I am already overwhelmed with cryptography today.” I said and left.

“Some scene plotter he is”, I said to Anastazia as we entered our car.

The Snake Charmer

2005-07-13T12:20:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I wonder why I was born as nobody in the neighborhood seemed to like me. I loved watching the kids play in the evening, especially cricket and soccer and always wished to endear myself or simply go and talk with them. But they never seemed to understand me and always distanced themselves. Some were mean and Ravi, the fat kid from Besant Avenue was the worst and I feared him the most. I don’t remember wishing harm to anyone and life was certainly queer. I did have a group of friends who were older and very different from the boys down the street. But they were always busy and sometimes I felt lonely and desired the company of those kids.

Every evening I am punctual in offering my respects to Lord Siva in the temple down south road. Today being “Pradosham,”a very auspicious day for one to offer obeisance to Siva and Parvati, I expected the temple to be crowded. There were many familiar people and Mr. Nagaraj was as usual chanting Rudram to Lord Siva bellowing at the top of his lungs. Mrs. Malini had a huge vessel filled with tamarind rice and was patiently waiting for the temple bells to ring before she could begin serving the Prasad. Shastri, the pot-bellied priest was silencing the kids, as preparations were undergoing for the evening Arati.

Perambulating the four walls and taking a dip on the Cauvery, I crept back in unnoticed. I inhaled the strong smell emanating from camphor and the incense sticks. Like every other child, I wait until they serve Prasad and delight myself in accepting something even as insignificant as a bowl of coconut milk. I deeply concentrated, the inverted lotus appearing in my eye center and chanted my prayers with language known to gods that no human can understand. Oh! Siva!!! When am I going to become free from material perplexities and see the all-pervading spirit that the wise call “Brahman?” My eyes opened and I was in perfect stillness. My mind had attained equilibrium and being able to see things as they were, I became a mere observer within changing reality. It was Arati time and everyone assembled in front of the altar and along with the priests many chanted the Vedic verses and the temple walls resonated with primordial sounds. After the Arati, I prostrated to the Lord, his consort, and paid my respects to other deities. The temple wasn’t huge and I was able to cover ground within a few minutes.

While patiently waiting for the women to serve us prasad, I spotted her. I knew she lived on Lakshmi Street near the banyan tree close to the banks of the Cauvery River. I often see her with her parents and although they don’t visit everyday, they regard Tuesdays and Fridays as auspicious days. Our eyes have met many times and she smiles at me coyly. I have made many brave attempts to get to know her, but not in the temple, my inner instincts correcting me. However, today she seemed to be present alone and I guess tonight I was going to take chances in introducing myself.

After taking Prasad am on the auspicious moon lit night, I saluted the Lord and decided to follow her. It had rained earlier and I enjoyed the smell coming from the wet sand. Crossing the street at the end of Krishna Avenue, I saw her take a left onto Sridharan Street. She was beautiful and her body curved like Goddess Lakshmi as she slithered into Amman Avenue. On a scale of 10 she was 9 to my eyes. I gained on her when I saw Ravi and the bunch of kids returning home. Ravi yelled “Hey look whom we have here, Hahaaa!!!” They started teasing me and I patiently tolerated expecting their censure to end soon. However, they were unrelenting and tormented me mercilessly. My body started shaking and rattling; Partly out of fear and partly because I didn’t hate them and didn’t want any adverse emotions to seize me after a good evening in the temple. Soon, they got physical and I lost my cool. “You mangy dog, son of a mongoose,” I hissed my blood boiling. Aggression wasn’t the way I was raised and words failed me. I couldn’t say anything. But I guess they got the idea and seeing me racking, they backed off and fled.

Emotions got the better of me and I felt weak. While I thought the whole incident went unnoticed, I saw her standing not far, behind the Peepal tree – a witness to the incident. She approached in my direction and our eyes met. Her eyes gleamed like emeralds and were like the ones of Pythia. She was ethereal, her skin shining in the moonlight. I was in no position to talk and she sensed my discomfiture. Her glance was comforting and I felt her vibrations. Her biorhythms indicating, “ I am there for you,” and let’s walk home together.

I snuggled closer her and forking our tongue we coiled around each other and she closed her eyes feeling shy. Our tongues met and I twitched as she willingly shared her venom. The silence in the night was disturbed by some rattling, a characteristic that rattle snakes exhibit when they desire to mark their zone and warn trespassers.

Tough Luck

2005-07-13T11:04:00.000-07:00

“Do you know Rohit? The gregarious and the most insincere guy I’ve ever seen. He seldom attends lectures and is always loafing around in a big gang. I wonder how he passed the first two years.” I said to my senior Ravi with exasperation.

Ravi exhaled the smoke and added, “Rohit, gregarious? You got to be kidding me.”

Inhaling the cigarette once more, Ravi began the narration:

The last lecture of the semester got over as Rohit picking up his belongings sauntered towards the clerical office to collect his hall ticket. Study holidays were beginning the next day and there were barely two weeks to swallow an entire semester worth of portions. Rohit was a second year student in Electronics and Communication Engineering and a loner by all standards. Although he was well acquainted with the inmates in hostel, he preferred seclusion and solitude, especially during exam times. Once during the first semester, five minutes before his Mechanics paper, his encounter with Zutshi left him sleepless nights. Zutshi attacked Rohit mercilessly with appalling questions.

“Did you study this? What you did not? Are you out of your mind, this will be asked today for 15 points. I hope you are thorough with the last part of the 4^th chapter as per our university pattern, predictably, this is sure shot and a trump card for us to clear safely.”

A lofty aim of topping the university on the first day of the semester dwindles to mere passing minutes before the exam. Rohit was aghast, his face turned green and he became ill, it took him 30 minutes to recover and begin answering the questions in the exam. The only good thing from that episode was it turned out Zutshi was a bad clairvoyant.

Rohit attended lectures ceremoniously for failure to do so was a transgression of moral living that would displease Hanumanji, at least that was what he thought. Not that he was brilliant and found the lectures enthralling, always putting his hands up or sitting in the front row. Sincerity being the key to success was how he was raised but yet, he was a little slow in learning and concentration didn’t always stay with him and thus he had to undergo the tribulations of listening to the harangue given by his lecturers during his 100% attendance without understanding them wholly, barely to be realistic.

Reaching his room, Rohit pulled out his suitcase and started packing as he hummed unto himself. He generally quit hostel and left home during study holidays, feeling that it was unwholesome to hang around at the hostel where inmates started celebrations by playing cards or fooling around creating a racket. His suitcase was ready and flagging an auto rickshaw, he got in, sadly not having any one to wave a good bye at.

Rohit believed that the cool trees near his house, adjoined by a quiet neighborhood, would enhance his biorhythms and help him concentrate better. He headed straight to the station and he took the overnight train home.

At home, after pleasantries were exchanged, his mom spoiled his initial days with an infinite supply of eatables so much so that he slept for 14 hours barely accomplishing any reading. Rohit squandered the first day visiting his old friends but convinced himself that the day was good because of his short visit to the local Hanuman temple before dinner. On the second day he flung open his suitcase, dusted his books that had fossilized over the semester, and picking them up stacked them on the bookshelf and then tried to undo the dog-ear his senior had made on a couple books last year before selling them second hand.

Contrary to his mom’s opinion that last exam must be studied first and first exam last, Rohit liked to begin serially and toasted to “Math 3” - his first subject for that semester. Thinking a quick appetizer after dinner would trigger his cognitive skills, Rohit arranged five jilebis like a star on his silver plate to his right. Onto his left, he placed the sev and whistling, he opened his math book and peered onto the contents. He picked up a random problem, an example on the 1^st chapter in case he needed the solved answers, and tried working towards the solution. Soon, his rough sheet was intricately decorated with modern art full of mathematical algebraic solutions, running horizontal, vertical, and sideways offering no further degrees of freedom in the XY axis. He smiled to satisfaction as he arrived at the solution not catching that it took him 45 minutes for what is asked in the exam for barely 7 marks. Exulting, he picked up his remote and turned on his favorite channel, Discovery, hoping to get back to Math 3 quickly after the short break. His eyes deceived him and Rohit found a program on eating disorder so riveting that he shut his book and concentrated on the speaker who educated Rohit with the fact that an average American eats five times more than what they did in the sixties and Rohit even managed to chuckle when the reporter concluded projecting that it won’t be long before they start weighing themselves on Richter’s scale. At 1.00 a.m. he yawned failing to understand that the third of the 14 day valuable preparation time was devoured.

With the excuse that he stayed up late all nights, Rohit overslept never seeing his father leave for work or his servant complete her morning chores and, as always, was late for brunch – it was almost lunchtime to be precise. On afternoons he experimented with pulling his desk beneath the tall trees next to the kitchen, believing his concentration would improve. However, his extroverted mind was docile in satisfying every demand placed by his eyes, which was running here and there, even to something as insignificant as a squirrel attacking a coconut shell. Alas! Days four, and five were over and he preferred not working on weekends mistaking that he needed a quality vacation.

At the start of the second week, Rohit figured that a more concerted effort was required now that the gap was closing, and spent the 8^th day afternoon wiring two electric lamps and accessories into his courtyard beneath the Neem tree, deriving power from the pumpset adjacent to the kitchen. Neem, he believed, offered him refuge from the spirits that dominated the town, which upon sighting even Hanumanji would flee for his life. That night concentration eluded him yet again and although he aimed at the sky and not the treetop, he was plainly staring at the constellation comprising 3 stars which he had no idea formed the belt of the Orion.

As his days were being numbered, tending towards decimal, it wasn’t long before panic found its way into him, slowly seeping from his stomach and spreading its way towards his heart and soon it was cancerous and beyond cure. His initial weakness of external distraction was replaced with remorse, fear, regret, and negativity. His nightlife culminated with his penultimate and final ones being sleepless and spirited in his own way, Rohit packed and headed back to college feeling accomplished.

Rohit had barely opened his lock and set foot into his room when a swarm of inmates rushed towards him from nowhere.

“Hey man, Wassup? How was your stay, your mom fine? How is preparation? We were waiting for you to get back,” said someone.

Rohit shot one disgusted look at them knowing well the purpose of their visit and threw at them the eclectic collection of different sweets, savories, and preparations his mom had packed for them.

“Shall we study Unit two together in the library?” said Vikram as they were warming themselves with hot tea at Super tea stall.

“Nope, I would rather do so myself,” he shot back.

The next two days flew and Rohit was already in his math exam chewing his pen looking shaken. Finishing his exam, Rohit ran back towards his mess and knew that he was well beyond passing and hoped to score 70 plus and only when he was away from his friends and beyond their earshot did he breathe a sigh of relief, being least interested in their active discussion on solutions to the question paper.

Rohit marked his calendar with an “S” (successful) that day after answering the math paper and pulled out the books for his next subject “Electrical Machines,” the third paper being “Electronic Devices and Circuits.” Shutting the door, he ensconced himself on the desk promising that he wouldn’t get disturbed and work unabatedly for the next six hours. Fortunately for Rohit, concentration found him and by next midday, he had finished the first section that covered 50 %. He would have stirred a pandemonium in the hostel had others found out that he was so well poised. Rohit raced through and practically finished just after dinner with a flourish as he delicately darkened the borders of an induction motor, a practice diagram, which he was sure they’d ask tomorrow. Shutting his book and smiling to himself Rohit decided to not settle for any score below 90.

He walked across the courtyard and drank three glasses of water and mentally recounted his efforts as he walked back. He rhythmically chanted, “I am scoring a 100 on Electrical Machines,” a form of self-taught autosuggestion, which he felt would bloom over the course of the night and enable him instant success the next day – “After all aren’t we the masters of our mind?” He thought, the reality in his life being ironic. Dark clouds that Rohit failed to observe were slowly enveloping the full moon. So preoccupied was Rohit with his thoughts that he only noticed the gleaming eyes of a cat behind the gulmoher tree adjacent to the mess, not the fact that it had just crossed him a couple minutes earlier. He very well knew that the next morning revision was the decider, as one tends to forget what he learns if they aren’t revisited. After all, his subconscious mind would have churned them overnight. Setting the alarm, an electronic one his uncle had gifted him that he often proudly flashed by setting it on the table aside the window, to 4.30 a.m., Rohit hit the bed and fell into deep sleep, so deep that he was undisturbed by the storm that broke out at midnight. At half past one there was a power failure and Rohit didn’t wake up even when a scream erupted in the lobby from distressed inmates as all lights went out – so do did the lights on the LED display in his alarm and there was nothing but darkness.

Rohit would have continued with his slumber but was shown mercy by his neighbor Ashok at 7.30 am.

“Dude, have you decided to give up and repeat the exam next semester?”

Rohit jumped and paused until his eyes adjusted. His head was swimming and dazed, he ran to brush his teeth.

His reasoning mind was dead and instinctively he got ready, being dressed shabbily, and ran to the cycle stand. He pushed his bicycle a push and as it gained momentum, he kicked off the stand, jumped over, and grabbed the handlebars. He heard the crunch of the rim hitting the road and as luck would have it, it was a flat tire on his back wheel. Cursing, he ran back towards the hostel but luck was with him. His senior Kripal didn’t have exams that day and Rohit ran asking for his key not having time to explain the situation.

Unlocking the blue BSA SLR, Rohit took off hoping to set a university record on his exam. The weather was gloomy and the skies echoed giving ominous signs of an oncoming onslaught. He pedaled furiously towards college that was a good mile and a half from his hostel. The roads were slippery while he zipped through shallow pools of the slush and his mudguard protected him from accumulating murk on his t-shirt. Potholes filled with water and were as dangerous as landmines to an unwary bicyclist. Knowing the trail very well, Rohit could ride blindfolded and deftly avoided them picking up speed as he sliced through the icy winds. A huge thunder echoed and the rain unleashed itself on him with mad fury as Rohit cupped his palms to see through the blinding downpour.

At a corner, an auto rickshaw took a ridiculous turn and almost toppled as it lost balance, and headed straight for Rohit. Seeing the auto on a collision course, Rohit swerved hard to his left and ran his cycle through a ditch and a group of thorny bushes. Losing balance, Rohit almost fell when at the last moment he let go and jumped off the bike. Out flew his pad while his pencil box set free the assortment of compass, pencil, pens, and eraser in all directions.

His handler bars were bent and he spent the next five minutes straightening them and being able to get it into a manageable position, Rohit kicked off towards school. In order to take his mind off the situation, Rohit tried recounting all laws he had memorized in Electrical Machines last night, including Faraday’s, Biot Savart, and a few more. Nothing entered his brain but for Murphy’s Law – Anything that can go wrong will go wrong.

Covered with slush, and his jeans torn, Rohit was a sight to his college mates as he screeched to halt and parked his bicycle. He had ten minutes and ran to the departmental stores near campus to get pencils, pens, and the associated paraphernalia. Damn!!! He screamed to see a long queue outside the shop as the last minute students were purchasing their tools for the examination.

“I need a Reynolds blue, 2 pencils, a ruler, an eraser, a sharpener and a compass please,” he pleaded with Pappu, the vendor, who yawned at him scratching his head unable to comprehend the time crunch.

“That will be 20 rupees and 60 paisa,” he said as he put the assortment into a brown bag.

Rohit nearly choked, as he felt no lump on his back pocket - the wallet had fallen off during his mini accident. He literally thumped the counter that was made of glass and coins, pins causing the screws lying there to vibrate and resonate producing an annoying tone as they came to a halt.

“Listen Pappu bhai, look at my predicament is,” Rohit wailed plaintively, pointing to his clothes and his deplorable condition. “I promise I’ll pay you after my exam,” he requested.

Pappu nodded his head and then gave him his purchase. Rohit clutched on to his possession and ran for his life as though he had withdrawn a lakh from his bank and sprinted towards the classroom. He closed his eyes and was about to thank Hanumanji when his inner intellect said “hall ticket” laconically. Of course, his hall ticket was in his wallet. Rohit stopped short, closed his eyes and prayed deeply. “Oh! Hanumanji! This is not fair, save me for the last time and I won’t bother you again, I promise.”

“Rohit, what the hell are you doing? I have been looking all over for you, you left your hall ticket at the lecture hall after the first exam and I was lucky to find it above your desk,” reprimanded his friend Vikram, his prayers being answered instantaneously.

Rohit couldn’t believe his eyes and clutching the hall-ticket, he ran for his life into the lecture hall showering praises into Hanumanji and said he would keep his promise and not bother him, at least for that day. He entered the lecture hall and the examiner who had already started handing out the answer sheets scowled at his appearance. Gripping the question paper in his hand, Rohit skimmed through the questions on the first and second section. “Hmm not bad, the pattern is indeed repetitive, and I must answer three out five questions in each section,” he thought. Taking a deep breath, he skimmed through the first question and nothing made sense. He paused, looked at his shoe and once again concentrated on the wordings more carefully. Rohit frowned as something was amiss. He flustered and his face turned scarlet red when he read the wordings on the first sentence of the question paper even as his ears couldn’t detect the high pitched voice of the proctor instructing, “Make sure you write your roll number and the subject name – Electronic Devices and Circuits on the top right corner of your answer sheet. That night he turned into an atheist.

“Oh my god, that must have given Rohit a heart attack,” I remarked excitedly.

“Not quite. Only half an attack”

“What do you mean?”

”On the contrary, he decided not to despair and answered six questions with two additional sheets in a totally different language; He answered what all he knew on Electronic Machines that had no coherence and relevance with the questions asked on Electronic Devices and Circuits.”

“Oh! Did that really happen?”

“Yep, but what blew us all was when he managed to clear the subject with 42. Anyhow the point is he made up with Hanumanji and now visits him every week without fail”

Water Works

2005-07-13T10:55:00.001-07:00

On a perfectly bright late summer afternoon, Rakesh struggled to get his focus onto memorizing the chapter on induction motor and its associated mathematical equations. Exams were approaching and the heat was unrelenting. The hostel rooms were no better than a furnace, which made them all head out to the college and study. His body quivered and his mind kept bringing him visions of the previous night fireworks that Ganguly had displayed. Restlessness was now in full swing and he couldn’t control himself. He looked around and found his friend Ramesh too sulking in the corner of the college library. He closed the book with a loud thud disturbing a few studious ones and awakening the rest from their slumber. Ramesh grinned at him and that was it. Throwing their books aside both ran outside and stretched as the evening breeze blew across their face.

Rakesh started, “I wonder if I am doing a course on Engineering history or Electronics. I mean, I don’t understand why I must memorize the drawing of a drum printer let alone it’s working when they have commercially available laser printers.” Ramesh couldn’t agree better and said, “Let’s get back to it in a couple hours. How about get a few shots into the basket?” Rakesh’s mood changed instantaneously and both ran back to their rooms to get the basketball.

Fortunately for them, the basketball court was fairly cool as the adjacent hostel building blocked the sun and engulfed its rays. “We just got a week more and I haven’t crammed 1/10^th of the portions,” said Ramesh releasing the ball that traced a beautiful parabola and soundlessly landed inside the basket. “A silencer, you noticed that?” Rakesh, staring at Asha who just slipped into the ladies hostel, asked bemused “I wonder what she eats man!” Ramesh, ignoring his question started, “I am bored dude! We need a break and there has not been any activity recently.”

Rakesh taking a deep breath added pensively, “Life would have been better if our campus was out on the mountains surrounded by woods, into which we can venture when bored and perhaps dive into a pond and you never know, there may be a cascade emptying itself into the pond.”

“You forgot to mention babes and beer,” Rakesh completed.

Ramesh said, “All I care is a swimming pool where I can laze around in the afternoon. There are enough trees in our campus to protect us from this scorching heat.” Soon, Avinash and Ravi joined them and after a few minutes of relaxing they decided to go and have tea at super tea café. Ravi started, “If only it rained now, I want to get completely wet and yet not take a bath.” Ramesh spotted Rakesh’s smile, who said, “Hey guys, how about some fun at the hostel, shall we get everyone wet?” Everyone brightened immediately, “Excellent and that way we deodorize the whole place as with the exams nearing many aren’t going near the shower,” said Ravi

Avinash said, “Now how do we do it? Hmm!! I remember my cousin mentioning about a water world show at the Universal studios LA. It seems the people who sit on the first few rows close to a pool of water get smashed with buckets and jet skis by the performers.”

Ravi interrupted, “Well, I wouldn’t try to mess with Ashish. Especially, grabbing a mug full of water and knock knock! When he opens, splashhhhhhh!” Ravi said, “Haha!!! And you won’t know if he is angry for making him wet or giving his “Principles of Electrical Machines” a bath.”

Ramesh crunching on his samosas started seriously, “Let us fill up buckets and pour from the terrace water on anyone who enters or leaves enters the hostel. In addition, we’ll also wet ourselves so that no one can confront us”

Armed with five buckets full of cold water, the four marched onto the terrace towards a section just ahead of the door where the parapet walls folded inwards creating an opening, peering over which you could see the entrance to the hostel’s ground floor. The sun was down and the darkness would enable them an easy get away in case the warden came on rounds. The watchman fortunately was off somewhere leaving the entrance unguarded and deserted. Chuckling, Ravi added, “I wish shinde was on duty below now” referring to the watchman.

Nobody appeared for the first five minutes and the four began to wonder if they were the only ones whiling away their time. Ravi grinned, “Guess who’s approaching pointing to a silhouette barely discernible with the hostel lights,” as Pankaj clad on pajamas with his heavy school bag hanging on his shoulders, and a drafter on his right hand, tottered towards the door ruminating what he had swallowed a few hours before. Taking careful aim, Ramesh lowered angling the bucked and when Rakesh signaled emptied the contents. Falling two floors down, the cold water hit Pankaj with tremendous force stunning him. When he regained his poise, Pankaj ran upstairs and outpoured a string of Gujarati expletives that didn’t make any sense to the rest.

In a short while, the four pacified him and prepared themselves to attack the next victim. Samir approached the entrance and observing the floor full of water paused and looked around suspiciously. Famous for his reasoning capabilities and ratiocination, Samir concluded the water had to come from above as it hadn’t rained and there wasn’t water anywhere around. No sooner he turned his face upwards than five gallons of a jet stream smashed his nose as Ravi squealed from the top, “That was a perfect hit dude.” Over the next hour, the terrace was flooded with inmates all drenched and the hostel floor was so inundated that they had to close the entrance and use the back door. The excitement would have continued for the next hour but for the unexpected whistle that Shinde shrieked and everyone had to make a mad rush to his room.

That night and the following day went uneventful and no one was caught for violating hostel rules but the entrance was still like a swamp inviting mosquitoes and other insects. In the library, the whole afternoon Ramesh and Rakesh were full of smiles and their CPUs were fully being utilized while only an iota of Machine theory seeped into their cerebral cortex. Most of their cognitive abilities were aimed at constructing other hydrophilic schemes to invigorate the hostel atmosphere that night. Although their engineering minds conceived a plethora or brilliant ideas, they had to keep it quiet today as they were nearly caught by the warden the previous night.

In the evening they re-gathered and Avinash started, “Hey look what I got,” grinning as he pointed to 5-dozen balloons bags he procured from the bazaar that afternoon. Ramesh retorted, “Wonderful, if only I had the arm of Chris Cairns, taking a good aim from my window, I can get every tooth out of Asha’s.” Ravi said, “I wonder why it never devolved upon us to implement these ingenious techniques last Holi.” Rakesh said, “Gentleman, I would still play it safe tonight, so let us use traditional ideas and for starters, do you guys remember from books where they set up a sack full of flour on top of the door? In a similar way, we could load the four rest room doors with mugs full of water on the second floor.”

With their set up ready, no sooner had the four taken their position behind the stairs than they saw the image of Amit rapidly increasing in size approaching them. Apparently very urgent to relieve himself, Amit made a wild rush and give a strong kick to the rest room door, the impact causing the mug to fly, travel across, and crash onto the opposite wall. Due to the momentum, the mug ricocheted off the wall causing water to ricochet on all sides giving Amit a grand shower. Soon, Amar, Nikhil, and Saurabh were all drenched and the same tactics were employed on all but 1^st floor right side lobby.

“We got to get Varun this time,” said Ravi. Ramesh replied, “But he seldom goes to school and prefers studying in his room despite the intolerable heat.” Ravi replied, “Amit was saying because of last night’s ruckus this afternoon he went off to the library. Of course, unless you go that side how’ll you know,” and grinned at Avinash who had been shopping earlier that day. “Let us guard our set up and wait until he returns as I am sure he’ll come back to his room before dinner.” Avinash taking watch guarded Varun’s room not allowing anyone to enter, the mug sitting on the door. In the interim, Ravi was at the door yapping with the juniors asking how they were preparing for the first semester exams.”

Roughly around 7.45 p.m., Ravi whistled waking up Avinash and the other three watched Varun silently walk back to the hostel after a hard day of tirelessly solving logic design equations, and nodding their heads the three thought in unison – no wonder he is the topper. Taking cover behind the stairs as before, they heard the sounds of his slippers grinding on the cement floor. The sounds slowly grew and along with the slapping noises, there was also a low volume screech caused by his dragging feet and they began wondering if Varun was tired. Ravi counting his steps, knew Varun would cross him any minute and as the figure slowly loomed and he could distinctly spot him from his hideout. Dressed on loose pajamas with a red shirt, Ravi spotted a pod-bellied structure with a cane on his hand. From the size of his hands, Ravi instantly knew he was looking at a different personality and it wasn’t Varun.

“Oh may god!! They all screamed silently in unison. The figure in sight was the warden and for some reason he was walking towards Varun’s room. We watched open-mouthed sensing disaster as the Warden paused momentarily outside his room. Shifting his cane onto his left hands he slowly thrust open the door with his right. We closed our eyes expecting to hear a delchhhhh!! However, our ears failing to perceive any such shrillness caused us to open our eyes and look at what happened. Not believing our eyes, we saw what could be called providence as when the door slowly opened, the mug traveled along with it still perched atop in perfect equilibrium, the horizontal forces canceling each other. Seeing the empty room, the warden crept back unnoticed and headed towards his office. Immediately, Ravi ran and grabbed the mug shoving it beneath Varun’s bed exclaiming, “That was a close call man!”

Later, Ramesh and Rakesh after dinner walked back recounting the events when Rakesh said gloomily, “Man! I guess we have to head back now and start cramming.” Both were silent for a few minutes, perhaps planning what they could do the following day. Maybe they won’t try anything after the fright they had encountered earlier in the day. Parting near the water cooler, Ramesh said, “I got meet Rajesh and get a few of my questions cleared, so you go ahead and I’ll join you in 10 minutes.”

However, despite the pranks they had played the last two days Rakesh wasn’t satisfied and began to smile slyly. He devilishly connived with his inner mind on ways to trap Ramesh. Entering Ramesh’s room, Rakesh silently picked up a mug of water and standing on a chair, he carefully angled the mug atop the door and evilly gloated. Acting as though nothing happened, he sat on Shinde’s chair waiting for Ramesh’s return. Fifteen minutes had passed and there was no sign of him. Where is he? Did he get back to studying by any chance? And the thought of exams momentarily fluttered Rakesh’s heart. From a distance he figured the arrival of Amit, his face showing signs of panic. “Hey, get out of here quickly,” said Amit muttering between breaths. Somehow word has reached the warden about the incidents and Ashish, and Ramesh are currently being grilled at his office. Ravi has managed to escape and perhaps is now in college. I hope word doesn’t travel to the staff as who knows; perhaps the principal would terminate them from the hostel or not make them write exams. Best, hide in Dilip’s room in hostel 1 as being a good student, no one will think of coming there.

Rakesh was shocked and became speechless. Panicking, his face contorted as bile rushed into his mouth. He didn’t dare get to hostel 1 the normal way and dashing right, he ran at top speed and approached the hostel walls near the basketball court. The fear causing the adrenaline rush enabled him to jump a little higher than usual and grabbing on to the top he somehow scaled the wall tearing his shirt in that process. Walking southward, he slowly approached the shed beneath the gulmohar tree and dropped onto the asbestos roof, the sound coming off the surface deafening. He skulked on the roof towards hostel 1 and as he neared, he saw a branch come of the gulmohar tree curve and angle downwards a feet off the asbestos roof. Grabbing the branch, he hoisted and carefully lowered himself onto the sunshade beneath the first floor window and above the drainpipes. Traveling all along the width of the hostel, Ramesh peered over the corner and saw Shinde guarding the entrance. Darn!!! He exclaimed and approached the window under the first floor bathroom. Removing the panes with ease, he pulled out his pocketknife and slowly took out the windowsills. Concentrating, with one last heave, he dropped into the second floor and sat on the corridor heavily breathing as an owl shrieked on the full moon night.

Collecting himself, Rakesh quickly made way towards the row of stairs and ran up. Entering second floor, he hid behind the stairs and peered over the corridor that was deserted, as the inmates were either at school or in the mess having their dinner. Tiptoeing his way across the lobby, he found room number 219, Dilip’s hostel room. The lights were off and the door was unbolted and didn’t have a paddle lock indicating Dilip was not inside. Gripping onto the bolt and getting a firm purchase, shivering, Rakesh slowly turned and leaned back onto the door relieving his tension and glanced one last time through the corridor for any unexpected visitors. Finding no one Ramesh slowly let himself into the room thinking of ways to hide inside when delchhhhh! A thunderous splash echoed through the room for the last time that year. Lights went on, both in Dilip’s room and on other rooms as students burst out laughing into the corridor staring at Ramesh as he wiped his specs, his hair dripping. Different kinds of laughter could be heard; some were high pitched, a few were low pitched, and most were artificial but even amidst the cacophony of sounds, Rakesh distinctly located the voices of Ravi, Ramesh, and Avinash.