The Best of Indian Blogosphere (BoIB) 2010
Hello readers!
This blog has been selected for the final round of Best of Indian Blogosphere (BoIB) 2010 polls under the category Fiction. Do vote for me, if you like the stories I’ve penned down! 🙂
You can cast your votes here: http://poll.fm/f/2mxdi
Cheers,
Priyanka
Comic timing
He closed his eyes and was near-instantaneously transported to a place he knew as his own. He twitched his eyebrows funnily and smiled at the crowd as they expressed their approval with a thunderous applause. They were calling out his name now, over and over again. It fed his ego, he felt good. Really good. He’d do anything to keep this going. He opened his eyes and worked furiously on his new script. He retrieved the crumpled post-it notes from his pocket, opened them up, and straightened them out with his fingers, holding the edges in place. He took a closer look at what he had scribbled – ideas that had occurred to him always went on post-it notes, to be put to use later when he actually got down to writing the script for his next show. His over critical gaze drank in the words over and over again, shredding them of all meaning and dignity. These days nothing could please him; his jokes didn’t seem funny anymore. It was maddening. For a stand-up comedian who had people in splits all the time, he led a pretty miserable life. The applause at the end of his thirty minute show was his only moment of glory.
He bit on the end of the pencil nervously, his fingers trembling, a queer restlessness started to take control over his senses. Fame – it takes them down, it takes them all down; and the defeat seems like victory until the moment dawns, when you know better and it’s too late. He strained his eyes on the piece of paper. He desperately wanted to come up with something that would send the audience into an unending fit of laughter, but he couldn’t see the humor in anything anymore. He clutched a bottle of pills and opened it with great effort, his fingers trembling furiously, feeding the fear within, of losing his top spot. He thought toxic thoughts. Vulnerable with the increasing sense of defeat that he often clouded with denial, he took solace in the little white pills – a temporary relief to a permanent problem.
Where was the humor? He grasped the notes in a frothing fit of rage, crumpled them until they could shrink no further and flung the ball to the far end of the room. Seconds later, he found himself running to that corner, in dark desperation, retrieving the ball, freeing it from dust bunnies. He opened it, his only thread of hope, and cried helplessly. Failing to make sense out of smudged pencil marks, he realized he didn’t remember a word of what he’d spent more than an hour, analyzing. He ran to the window and looked around, at people, and waited impatiently for them to do something outrageously funny. He had an audience to please. They must love him. They must cheer for him and call out his name. He had an audience to please. They must love him like they loved him the last time. They must love him more.
Another futile attempt, there was no new script. He had been trying for weeks now. He felt…impotent. He donned the crisp clothes that the best designer in town had tailored for him, he clutched onto the last of the series of scripts he had written when the days were good. He held on to his last script. His air conditioned Mustang escorted him to the venue. He felt priceless and worthless at the same time. He felt the pressure mounting and tried to brush aside thoughts of the elusive set of fresh scripts he had to work on after returning from the show. He had to keep this going, hear his name being called out by the frenzied crowd. Over, and over again. He pictured himself putting on that show of humility after the crowd cheered at the end of the show, that jovial “Get outta here!” with a dismissive flick of the hand.
Show- time. Loud cheering. He could see a few familiar faces. “What’s up New York?!” he greeted the crowd with his signature contortion of facial muscles followed by the cupping of his right ear with one hand that conveyed they weren’t cheering loud enough. There was an immediate increase in the decibel level. They were now calling out his name. “So I was just thinking …”, he began, as the crowd grew quiet to hear what he was saying, “…People are getting real suicidal these days, you know you hear these stories floating around, people killing themselves everywhere…I was just wondering…we could just make the whole affair a whole lot of fun by thinking up new and innovative ways of doing it, if you know what I mean. ..So I was just thinking up a few favorites, and somehow dying of suffocation in an elevator with Mariah Carey breathing in it hit the bottom of the list” He heard some distant guffaws while the rest of the crowd laughed politely.”I mean come on, you deserve better than that, it’s your life your ending and if you HAVE to end it, you need to do so in style!” he put on a pompous look and pretended that he was running a discourse on a topic of profound importance.”You know… I’m an old fashioned guy when it comes to such things, and I love being this way. I mean, when it comes to topics like these I’m the guy who walks around with a sundial on his wrist while the rest of you sport the trendiest wrist-wear”… The crowd laughed in unison. “So I’d like to go for the tried and tested traditional ways …I think I’d rather try a combination of all of ‘em. You know what I’d do? I’d tie a rope to a tree at the top of a cliff ,and the other end around my neck. I’d also bring a gun to shoot myself while I’m falling and before I jump… I’d swallow poison”, he joked, illustrating what he said with tying an imaginary rope around his neck, pulling out an imaginary gun and popping an imaginary pill, with a queer spaced-out expression on his face that struck the audience as funny. “As I jump off, I’d try to shoot myself in the head but I’d miss and I’d shoot through the rope. The free fall would make me sick and I’d throw up all the poison on the way down and land in a river” He kept a straight face throughout and continued to speak with wide eyed interest, at the same time he pretended that he was having a free fall which finally ended with a not so dignified dip in the river. “Having escaped all that, when I finally crawl out onto the back I’d curl up and die a few hours later from hypothermia” The audience hooted and cheered, they seemed to be having a good time.”You know I think I’d enjoy it more to watch it happen. You know what my goal is? To be cloned. So if I’d want to commit suicide, I’d have options!” This time the hall reverberated with loud applause and laughter. “Heck, I was spring cleaning the other day and I happened to find my old backstreet boys record, when I realized that I’d spent the whole of my teenage committing suicide!”, he jerked his neck violently with both his hands as the crowd went mad with laughter, looking at him teary eyed, wanting more… “Alright I’ve so run out of jokes right now…I think I’m gonna kill myself!” The crowd laughed uncontrollably, the pace and the momentum was just right. He closed his eyes and drew in the applause, savored it. He slipped his hand into his pocket, pulled out a gun and shot himself. He lay in a pool of blood. People were still laughing. He always got the right comic timing.
Antaragni
Eight pm. Time to get to work. She pressed the lipstick on her lower lip, a deeper shade of red, and surveyed her reflection in the dim light. Emptiness reflected back. The walls of the room bore witness to her trysts with the mirror every evening, the paint giving way with each passing day, as if peeling off in shame. She applied a layer of talc over the foundation that she hoped would conceal her dark skin, a curse to her profession. She looked at herself with renewed hope, and hated what she saw. A tear drop washed off a mixture of talcum powder and foundation as it progressed towards her chin, leaving behind a trail of her naked complexion. She threw the make-up kit away and looked at her garishly done-up face as she walked closer to the mirror. Her breath clouded her reflection as she watched herself cry. A bit of the lipstick had stained her teeth; she made no effort to wipe it off. She just stared into the emptiness in her eyes and let the tears meander; discover new routes to her chin, hot as the blood boiling within. Every inch of her body ached… tired and all used up.
The new ring road had opened up a lot of opportunities for business. The truck drivers would line up and park the trucks in close proximity. The first few hours went in striking a deal and fixing the price. She was always approached last. They preferred the younger, fair complexioned, slimmer girls. She looked away from the mirror and moved towards the stack of brightly colored clothes and picked a red flashy top with the lowest neckline. She struggled to get into it, sometimes she felt like cutting off her flab with a knife. “I don’t want the dark, fat one”, they’d say. The other girls would leave one by one and she’d stand there waiting alone, watching the blur of yellow lights flow past her, her hands crossed, and trying to hide the flab around her waist. She wiped off the tears, coated her lashes with heavy mascara and coated her face with a renewed layer of makeup. Images from her childhood haunted her as she sprayed perfume over her neck. She didn’t feel bad about the crudeness of her profession, having been robbed of all dignity and innocence way back in her childhood. She felt there was nothing more to her than a body she could exchange for money. A body scarred by cigarette butts.
She brushed her hair wondering how she’ll survive with so little money. The other girls could afford to throw their weight around and charge extra. She’d be excited at the prospect of being chosen last if it weren’t for the money. She had a baby to care for, whose good-for-nothing dad was her own uncle. She hated the fact that the child that was growing inside her was a product of a man she detested the most, but she had decided not to kill it. She had just hoped the child would look nothing like its father, that way she’d find it easier to love the child. She bent down to pick the earring that had slipped out of her hands and her eyes fell on the floor. The same cold, damp floor on which she had spent days writhing in pain.
She slipped her feet into her gaudy sandals and cast one last look at the mirror and was disappointed with what stared back. With leaden feet she crossed the threshold to earn her day’s income. She was escorted with the other girls to the dark corners of the ring road which was their usual hangout. There were some men already waiting for them. Deals were struck. Girls were taken. She stood there waiting, watching the yellow blur of lights from the passing vehicles. She laughed at her fate. Even among whores she was picked last. The rustle of leaves announced the approach of a prospective customer. There were two men, they surveyed her unhappily. They had no choice, the good ones were taken. They looked around impatiently… they smelt of sweat and alcohol. One man announced that he’d rather wait for the ‘good ones’. The other man beckoned to her…she was thrilled and horrified at the same time. The door of the truck closed behind her. She was the whore who got picked last.
Diamonds in the sand
They looked at each other, an impish glint in their eyes, and smiled knowingly. The competition was on! They ran in opposite directions, a boy and a girl…their feet disturbing the soil into a messy trail of footprints, tiny specks of sand were shaken off in a unanimous spray of brown. They stopped at a distance, turned around and signaled to each other, grinning. This signified the beginning of the hunt. They set off in two different directions, consumed by the thirst to be the one who returns first with the most valuable possession. Their giggles echoed around the place. With grubby knees and grimy fingers, they stirred up the rubble, scouring the place, moving things around, digging deeper, exploring corners, dirt collecting between their fingernails.
There was no promise of success, but it didn’t occur to them, the thought of not finding anything didn’t bother them because they were in it together. That’s all that mattered. Imagine having a friend who was all you thought about, who was all you cared about, being with whom was all you needed. The treasure was of little value if they didn’t have each other to show it to, brag about it, fix up a bargain, and negotiate on a fair exchange. The search grew more intense, the increasing heat colored their skin a deeper shade of brown. They picked up useful bits which would help in the bargain, brushing away annoying sweat beads. Occasionally, they looked over their shoulders to make sure the other hadn’t made enough headway either.
They had been inseparable ever since they met. Every little thing excited them, they’d make big plans about the things they could do and achieve together. The world was their playground and each opportunity was a piece of clay they could mould into any shape they liked! Was it love or friendship? They didn’t know and they didn’t care! Their days revolved around each other and they’d risk anything, go any distance as long as they were in it together. Life without each other was unimaginable. The excitement had transformed into a burst of frenzied searching. They agitated every corner into a confused pile of rubble, their fingers skimming through anything that held promise of bearing something valuable.
They had managed to fill their sagging pockets with trinkets they’d manage to collect. They believed they had an eye for things that were priceless. Of course they did. They had found each other. They ran towards each other as fast as they could, emptied their pockets and found great pleasure in exaggerating the importance of each item. The girl had found pieces of a ‘highly expensive’ watch which she believed she could fix and sell for a hundred bucks. The boy laughed at her naively ambitious idea and snatched it playfully. This was followed by a mad chase, clumsy snatching and dodging, punctuated with insanely loud laughter. They surveyed the pile of ‘valuables’ – used batteries, broken toys, scraps of metal, with wide eyed wonder; easily excited, easily pleased, and blissfully happy. The two slum-dwellers walked together in the dumping ground holding on to their biggest treasure- each other.
Modrern Tailors
Little triangles of cloth of various hues decorated the floor; the tiny shop was dimly lit and smelled of fresh cloth and grease. The rat-a-tat of a single sewing machine competed with the rat-a-tat of many from the adjoining shop ten steps away. Yakub bent over the wooden counter and looked at the newly opened shop that had a shining board that read ‘Modrern Tailors’ with a picture of a beautiful woman wearing an attractive salwar kameez. Fifty years in the profession was a really long time, he had dedicated his life to sewing clothes to fit people and suit their tastes. He didn’t know what modern women liked but he did know that the clothes he stitched would last for a long time without one stitch giving way and he prided himself on his stitching techniques. He scoffed at women who now thronged the new shop fooled by the promise of a shiny board. He lifted his metal scissors and cut the cloth neatly from end to end, feeling sorry for his years of his experience overshadowed by a well-lit tailor shop for modern women.
It started with a tinge of jealousy when he first heard about a new tailor shop, he brushed it off thinking that it would take years for it to get established. People would trust their clothes with a person who has spent years handling them, with an experienced eye and hand. He pictured himself giving words of advice to the young fledgling in the initial days when there would be no business, about how it takes patience and perseverance to succeed in any business and that only when you win the customer’s trust by providing quality service, will they return to your shop and become regulars. This fatherly feeling of looking out for and being pitifully affectionate towards a fellow tailor soon turned into a combination of insecurity and seething anger when he saw that not only did the new tailor get a lot of customers on the day he opened shop but he also managed to lure some of Yakub’s own regular customers.
Yakub was only sixteen when Abba gave him enough money to rent out a small room and buy himself a sewing machine, he had already spent two years under his uncle’s supervision, learning the fine art of turning a sheet of plain cloth into something spectacular-he learned the art of embroidery, attaching tassels and turning any plain looking outfit into an extraordinary piece of art. Of course he charged extra for the embellishments, but more than anything he considered the longevity of the stitches as the mark of a good tailor. Business flourished and he had made enough money to buy the shop and call it his own. The loud clang of the metal scissor that had accidentally slipped out of his hand brought him back to the present. He took a renewed look at his work and it came as a fresh shock of understanding that his clothes did indeed look quite… old-fashioned.
He heard giggles from the new tailor shop; he bent over the wooden counter and caught two girls engaged in deep conversation with the young tailor, finding almost everything he said funny, bursting into a fresh set of giggles after every sentence that he completed. The young tailor flicked his silky hair and seemed to be enjoying all the attention, when he caught Yakub looking in their direction with unconcealed disgust. ‘Salaam aalaikum Yakub bhai!’ he greeted him, putting on one of his fake smiles. ‘Wa aalaikum as salam’, Yakub responded hurriedly and looked away. So this was his new ploy to keep customers coming back! In his fifty years of experience, Yakub hadn’t compromised on his conduct with women, not once! He treated them with utmost respect and spoke to them in a gentle tone, eyes lowered. What did the new tailor have so much to talk about with the two girls who had come to get their clothes stitched? Maybe he was too old fashioned to understand this.
That evening the new tailor came to his shop with a proposal. “Look Yakub Miya, you are aware of the fact that the number of customers who visit your shop is close to nothing, and you’re also growing old. Why don’t you sell your shop to me for a price much higher than what you’ll make anyway? Khuda na khaasta, agar paise kam pad gaye toh?” he said importantly. Yakub was angered at the very thought of selling his shop to someone, he spoke to him with great emotion, “Anwar Miya, I have everything I need. This shop was passed down to me by my father and I will not sell it. Why do you want my shop when you already have one?” Anwar thought for a moment, and decided to give the old man some time to think over it. “Yakub Bhai, we have so many customers coming in that we have run out of space. We need new machines and two more men will be joining us tomorrow. Alright, don’t sell the shop to us, but you can definitely consider renting it out? Think over it and let me know tomorrow. Khuda Hafiz!”
Yakub sat thinking till late in the evening, the mullah’s call from the mosque echoed in the confines of his little shop. For the first time he had missed his evening prayers. He repeated Anwar Miya’s words in his head slowly, deliberately. ‘Why don’t you sell your shop to me for a price much higher than what you’ll make anyway? Khuda na khaasta, agar paise kam pad gaye toh?’
Loud hammering was heard in the street the next morning. Tiny wooden chips flew as the old man’s eyes flickered, they were slightly moist and some of it collected around his wrinkles. It is difficult to tell if an old man is crying or if his old eyes are watering. No one really cares. That’s what old age does to you. “A good decision, Yakub Bhai! Here’s your rent for this month! Enjoy your days with your grandchildren.” Yakub collected the notes with both his hands, wrinkled but still strong; strong enough to guide the metal scissors, strong enough to run the sewing machine. He looked up at the new board that now adorned his shop; it proudly read ‘Modrern Tailors’. He picked up the little triangles of cloth from the dusty floor and pocketed it. He cast one last look at the new shining board as the letters reflected on his grey eyes, eyes that were still strong enough to slip a thread into a needle.
Priyanka Shetty's Blog 