My Three Concubines

(The 3 ingredients used in this story are - Dead Tiger, Wine Bottle, Superhero)

I am called a disbeliever of love; they don’t know I am not. They don’t understand why I prefer to live alone, nevertheless I do. They say it’s ludicrous that I stay away from love; I am not away from love. They say I need a woman, a lover; they don’t know I am in love.

To be honest, I was never loveless in my life. Love came at various times, well of course to me, and not to the other side. After the death of my mother, I was probably never loved back in return. But love would never leave my side. Like a little plant coming out from a planted seed, love would always arise in some corner of my heart and in no time, it would fill my entire heart. But unrequited love is difficult, to say the least, if not homicidal. And all my life, I have craved for love only to be turned down by my fate.

The only love I ever experienced was from my mother.

My father was a good man, socially. I wanted to study and grow up to be like him. But I knew I couldn’t, for I wasn’t half as bright as he was, or as any of my classmates.

“But, you will have a brighter future” my mother would tell me when I used to cry for being dull in studies. It’s needless to say that my father didn’t think so. But my mother, she would always protect me whenever my drunken father would try to raise a hand on me. “Brainsick” he called me when I repeatedly failed to pass my exams for the third standard. Tireless efforts of my sick mother made me pass in the exams of the second standard. And when the results were declared and I returned home to tell my mother that I am eligible to sit in class III now, I found my mother lying dead on her bed. She had finally succumbed to the lung cancer she had been fighting for years.

“Mother, open your eyes, I am finally in class three.” These were the last words I spoke to my loving mother’s cadaver.

Ever since that day, ever since I reached class three, I was never loved again.

Class Three.

The word three holds a deeper meaning for me. For today I divide my heart and the love in it, into three. Yes, I had two concubines in my life. Tonight, I will have my third as I sit on the chair looking at her conveying my love for her and telling about the love we will make tonight.

I will be a man tonight, an adult, eighteen year old and I celebrate my birthday reminiscing my last two loves and I promise to love my third as long as I live.

I was an eight-year old when I fell in love with my first. Like I said before, I am not a disbeliever of love. I believe in all forms of love. I believe in the love of a mother for a child, I believe in the love of a child for a toy, I believe in love at first sight, I believe in love well-thought-of, in manipulated love, in material love, in unconditional love, in bounded love, in well-reasoned love, and in mindless love.

I saw him on the TV. Helping people, loving people, He was the proof that good wins over evil. He was the proof that if you believe in something it will come to you. He was the unsaid promise that if something bad happens to you; he will come to help you. And if for any reason, little children of my age or older take the wrong path, he will, without fail, come to stop them. He would teach lessons of morality. He would teach that we should always love the poor, the needy, and the weaker ones. He would say that treachery, theft etc is bad and you should never choose such a path. He would always say to love animals, for they will never harm you if you don’t harm them. They will always help.

He was the superhero of our country christened “Shaktiman” by the people, meaning a man of power.

It took me four long years to realize that he was just another fictitious character of the Television, a fake, a lesser mortal like all of us. He didn’t come when I had called for him innumerous times to bring my mother back or to come and love me and stay with me. Nor did he come when I had expected him to; to save my second beloved at her moment of dying.

It was love at first sight, my second love which somehow crept into the house of my heart, pushed the images of the Superhero aside and found its place to sit forever. Alas, the love was ephemeral. I didn’t even get an opportunity to know if she loved me back; I just imagine now that may be she did.

I was fifteen then and she was beautiful. The first thing I noticed about her was her pair of divine green eyes. Next her hair, brown hair yet black in some parts. With great serenity she looked at me back and walked towards me. I stood there dumbfounded by her beauty, by her presence. I knew I was in love with her. She walked towards me and I fell in love with each step of hers. She was only a few inches away when I heard the loud sound of a gunshot. It was our guide, Tiwari ji, who had fired the gun to kill the tigress in front of me, the tigress I fell in love with, and probably the only tigress we saw in our whole trip to Corbett National Park.

I had cried that day, I had cried for a month; and I had argued with our guide, with the teacher who was with us as an escort and with father.

“He went to jail for killing that tigress. He went to jail to save you. You are to be blamed. Don’t you get it?” My father had scolded. But I didn’t understand. I thought the tigress loved me. I thought she wanted to be loved in return, for a change, just like me. I thought we were supposed to love animals, like my fraudulent superhero had preached. I thought they don’t harm you if you don’t harm them. Either by my former love or by my father, I was lied to.

It took me a year or two to forget her, my second love. It took me another year to hate my first love. My heart till now was divided into two – the fake superhero whom now I hated, and the tigress for whose death I was to be blamed. It’s pity that I never got to know if she loved me back like I loved her, if she too fell in love at first sight.

Sometimes people fall in the wrong company, sometimes in the wrong love. May be the choices I made were faulty. May be I fell in love with the wrong ones. But God knows that I never could love anyone else. I was made to love them; and I was made not to be loved in return. I was made to live a melancholic life. I was made to beat myself up for somehow killing a poor tiger. I was destined to hate the Superhero I so believed in. And above all, I was destined to hate myself.

But, I am in love again, and I will make love tonight. I have parted my heart into three for her. And she sits tonight in front of me, flaunting proudly herself to me, telling me that I can’t help but fall in love with her. I am now looking at her entire body; I am planning to make love tonight. I am planning to make love with the beauty in front of me. I am planning to make love with the color red that she contains within her. I am planning to be in love with her forever. I am planning to love her - the bottle of wine, red wine, forever.

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The Metal Box

(The 3 ingredients used in this story are - Old Metal Box, A Reclusive Billionaire, A Recurring Memory)

It has been quite a long time since Mr. Morrison’s death, but it still feels like he talks to me in his usual grumbling manner. Mr. Morrison’s story is the only crawling truth that I’ve ever come across in my whole working life. I am a psychiatrist by profession and I have dealt with many kinds of mental illnesses, but Morrison’s was unique, I must say it literally challenged my education and practice. I don’t exactly remember who referred Mr. Morrison’s case to me, but I owe a lot to him.

My first encounter with Mr. Morrison proved to be a fiasco. As per his wish, we were scheduled to meet at a strange, unheard of café at the end of the town. Well, I usually do not start the sessions anywhere outside my chamber, but Mr. Morrison was an exception. He happened to be a member of the elite-class, and of some billionaire clubs, owned some antique gold pocket-watches, suited in the most expensive linen, owned several Ferraris, Limousines and, of course, Rolls Royce. Keeping his aristocracy in mind, I decided to fulfill his wish, but I was dumbfounded when I came to know the venue of the meeting. Why a rich and affluent person like him wants to meet me in an obscure place was beyond me. Maybe, he was afraid of being recognized.

When I reached the café, I saw some people pushing Morrison and trying to get him out of that place. I chose to watch from behind one of the huge pillars there. After the whole hullabaloo, I quizzed a waiter about what happened. He informed me that Morrison was caught red handed while stealing their cup-cakes and donuts. I was confused to comprehend why a respectable person like Mr. Morrison had to steal the food. I was aware of his misfortune; of the fact that he was bankrupt, his estate having been snatched from him, and how his debts engulfed his nest egg. I didn’t meet him that evening, but tried to sit back and think the incident through.

The very next day, I woke up to Mr. Morrison’s call. He spoke uncouthly in a muffled voice, and told me that he wants to meet me at my place. I wasn’t too keen to, but agreed nonetheless. The moment he entered my house, I was taken by surprise to see the change-over in him. He was profoundly different from how he had appeared at the café the previous day. He was very well behaved; attired in a suit which was, though old, scarcely ruffled. Taking his seat, he asked me for a cigar. But I wretchedly satisfied him with a cigarette instead. After releasing the first ring of smoke, his tale began.

‘I have had a bad past.’ he said, ‘that still haunts me everywhere; my dreams and even in real. It ruined my life, my successful life; I now am nothing but a destitute, penniless, pitiable eighty-years-old lunatic.’ That was the time I got to know about his age for the first time.

He continued his anecdote. ‘I was almost twenty or twenty-two; dynamic, vigorous and a very bright young lad when I started studying in New York. I had always been very sharp as a student, so my parents wanted to send me off to the city’s best college. My life was very mundane, I prepared my own meal, cleaned my own dishes, laundered my own clothes; the amount of money my father used to send was very little to be invested in restaurant-bills or paid laundry. I was very displeased with my stereotyped life. But then I met Sally Moore. Sally was the wife of Ronald Moore, a well-to-do business tycoon back then. He had a couple of industries to his name and owned a palatial estate-cum-house on the outskirts of New York. Mr. Moore was in his late sixty’s then, and Sally was a third his age. Sally and I were classmates, we were friends, and gradually we fell in love with one another. We used to hang around, talk a lot and have our meals together. She took good care of me, lent me money whenever I needed, fed me, cleaned my dishes and laundered my clothes, much like a committed ‘wife’. Neither of us had the guts to marry or live together, partly because Mr. Moore was at the peak of all powers. He had the money, and the connections to kill us. So, we waited for his death, which was expectantly not so far.’

He stopped suddenly, stubbed out the remainder of the cigarette and asked for one more. I hurried gave him another, as I was so very excited to hear the next part of his story. After lighting the second cigarette, he resumed.

‘Where was I? Oh, yes, Mr. Moore did not really know what went on, but he had his own suspicions. Whenever I went to the house, mainly to take my books back, he had several questions in store for me.

One day, in Mr. Moore’s absence, Sally invited me over to her house. That was the only time when we were so close; I felt her from every dimension. We made love, relentlessly chatting and caressing all along. Sally drew out a metal box from a chest underneath her bed and placed it in front of me. When I asked about it, she said that her father had given her the box when she was married. The box was filled with precious antique jewelry. She had never mentioned this before. She even went on to say that after Mr. Moore’s death, we would not need to touch any of his valuables; and that we could happily live with the contents of that box.

All of a sudden, the door flew open. Mr. Moore was standing, anger seething across his face. I thought this was my end; my life was about to draw to a close. But, strangely he let me go. After that day, Sally did not come to college for a while. Sometime later, I received a call from Mr. Moore, who said he wanted to meet me. I was both worried and excited to meet him. When he told me what he actually wanted from me, I was astounded. He actually wanted me to kill Sally and grab that metal box, which Sally had hidden from him for long, for him. And, he also offered me a huge amount of his fortune and a palace to live in. I staggered for a few hours after he left. Then, I brutally decided to go for the fortune rather than love.

On that very day, I blindfolded Sally and kissed her, then thrust the sharp blazing knife into her chest vigilantly. Her gown was drenched in blood in no time. As per Mr. Moore’s command I took her body to the woods and carefully buried her without a trace.’

‘So, this is how you become what you are now’, I quizzed him. But he didn’t say a word in reply, but merely continued his monologue.

‘Now, it has been almost fifty years, I have almost forgotten about the old days. But she has not forgotten me.’

‘Who is she?’ I asked.

‘Sally, she is back, and she is haunting me all over. A few months back, I got that metal box at my doorstep. All of this started after that. I am about to become insane. I lost all my riches in drinking. Please save me, she will kill me. Every night she calls me by the name she gave me, ‘Billy’. She leaves everything that I gave to her on my bed-side table; a red scarf, piles of letters and a few dove-feathers. Please save me, save me.’

I was not so amazed to hear his problem; I met several people every day with the same problem. But what made me amazed was his story of gaining the royalty. I knew it was nothing but his hallucination, maybe because at this point of lonely life and over-age, he was repenting his atrocious deed. Maybe his conscience badgered him. I gave him a few anti-depressants and told him to plan a vacation. But, he would not listen. The next day, I got to know that he got suffered a cardiac-arrest and passed away. I felt sorry for him; he was a very noble man, apart from the heinous crime that blackened his past.

I was invited to his funeral. Many aristocrat, ministers and socialites were there to pray for him. I was zealously moving around his house and suddenly I saw something at his bedroom. There was a metal box, aged but still dazzling, a red scarf, a pile of letters and a few dove-feathers lying on the floor.

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The Island

The Z-series assault-sniper is one of the deadliest weapons created; easy to use and assemble. A design that allows it to be disassembled and stored in a small backpack, thus making it the weapon of choice for many an assassin. Although the production of the Z-1, as it is known as has officially stopped, clandestine armourers from Israel to Thailand and Pakistan to Russia still manage to procure this weapon.

For the last five years of my life, every single day and night I have kept my Z-1 close to me. Living all alone on this remote island - one among the many that make up the Mergui Archipelago. I came here five years ago as a hunted man, a rogue agent. I had revealed a nexus between the 'Agency-head' and a small defense-contractor who had supplied defective weapons to the 'Agency'. Attempts were made to silence me with gifts and promises; but I refused to budge; went ahead and leaked the findings of my report to a newspaper. I was branded a traitor and charged under the 'National Security and Official Secrets Act'. With great difficulty I managed to sneak out of the country in a fishing boat and reached Mergui. As I contemplated my future, the newspapers in my country had turned against me. All allegations raised by me were dismissed as fabricated and I was painted as 'Enemy of the Country'.

This was the reward for being the top-notch assassin of a powerful intelligence network; for believing in the greater good of the country; for never having loved anyone and just being a shadow that would travel around the world; to eliminate those individuals who posed a threat to the progress of my beloved nation. This was the price of my pursuit for both truth and justice. I knew that the long hands of 'The Agency' would use every possible resource to track me down. I did not have too much time.

Years back, when I was a small boy, I loved reading 'Biggles Air Commodore's Adventures' and some stories featured the Mergui Archipelago. When I was not killing people, I would visit these small islands and atolls that made up the Mergui Archipelago. During one of the many trips, I discovered a small island. This island had a small network of caves that actually went below the surface of the earth and eventually merged into an undersea-cavern. I knew a day would come when I would require a sanctum. So I built a small retreat here, midway into the cave away from the eyes of the world, ensuring that none of the locals in the mainland realized what I was doing. To the locals I was just another crazy scuba-diver whiling away his time.

The island was self-sustainable with some coconut trees, fish were abundant in the sea, and I had stocked up on salt and spices for a long time. Like Robinson Crusoe, I survived for five long years, away from the glare of those who hunted me. Even I was surprised that no one had managed to figure out my hideout. But 'nothing lasts forever.' Early this morning at about 3AM there was a slow hum of a motor. The unmistakable sound of the 'Amphibian plane', landing gently on the beach.

I took out my solar-powered Magna-binoculars - and focussed on the beach - it was a three-man team and a pilot. The pilot relaxed and decided to smoke a cigarette and began playing a game on his mobile-phone. Ah! How the years have flown - not having used a mobile phone or a computer for five years - the device in the pilot's hand looked something out of a science-fiction movie.

Strike-1

I then focussed my attention on the three commandos - armed to the teeth; special night-vision goggles, smoke-grenades, assault-daggers, and a M-5 sub-machine guns. There would be some more weapons hidden in their compact backpacks as well. Each left in a different direction. Commando - 1 - C-1 headed straight towards the hill and walked up slowly. It was almost as if he knew there was a cave. He took out of his Zigmaster climber and fired it up on to the rock-face. The climber found its mark and stuck on to a crevice. C-1 tested the strength of the rope and climbed slowly. This was going to be child's play; I smiled as C-1 climbed the rock-face; I crept out slowly and noticed that it was the darkest hour 4 AM before dawn when the sun would rise about 4:30 AM. I took out my Z-1 and fired at the crevice where the climber's holder was stuck. The bullet found its mark and I focussed my binoculars on C-1, as he fell down the 200 feet with a surprised look. By the time he met terra-firma, he was dead by the wounds on his head and neck.

One down!

Strike-2

Apparently the commandos carried walkie-talkies and were in constant touch. For, within 25 minutes of C-1 crashing, C-2 and C-3 had rushed to the remains of their compatriot. In anger they took out their M-5s and shot madly at the rock-face. This noise brought the pilot out. There seemed to be a meeting between the commandos and the pilot. The pilot was to stand guard over the fallen man's body. C-2 and C-3 started climbing the rock-face from two different directions. I let them climb the rock-face and reach the top. There was a strange sense of joy - something that a psychoanalyst would describe as madness. For me, it was a question of survival - kill or be killed. As C-2 and C-3 approached stealthily, I threw a rock into a rain-puddle, my stalker immediately fired at the puddle. I smiled at myself. Then I shouted - 'Boys - do you really want to do this?'

By now C-2 and C-3's frustrations were evident as they began to fire randomly. I calmly took them out with one bullet each aimed straight at the heart - no soldier deserves to be shot in the back! The Z-1's bullet can pierce even the toughest vest. The bullets found their mark and C-2 and C-3 fell down dead.

Strike-3

It was precisely at this time that I felt a massive tremor. I looked at the sea - and the rising sun - something seemed wrong! The waves were lashing at a ferocious space and they seemed to be ten times normal than usual, the Amphibian had no chance as it got battered to pieces; the pilot stood still lost and resigned to his fate; the waves carried him away as well.

Then I felt the ground below my feet shaking as I rushed to higher ground. I realized a tsunami had struck! The massive waves returned thrice and then all went calm and silent. The sea was its usual impersonal self. I buried the men who had come to kill me and I looked at the damage that the ocean had unleashed.

This too shall pass!

I looked at my trusted Z-1 and walked slowly on the beach reflecting on how a true agent is always an 'expendable'!

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Gnosis

Sailing alone, far from the shore, towards the high and mad sea

A melancholy strain touches my eye; I feel a sense of qui vive

I see sun sloped down the clouds; brilliant brightness of the sky going pale
I hear the silence raspy requiem, Singing in the sky

I see no nightingale. There is stillness in the air

the whirling wind has suddenly given his frown

The sanity of the sky comes to a standstill

As if it would take years to reach down

The arid arena shows no signs of life

as if waiting for a stirring storm

I see no bird or beast pass by; the bluntness beyond any norm

Bones infested with growing fear, realization gives me a serpent kiss

Till now under a spotless cloud of ignorance, I was asking for bliss.

Once free from manacles of birth, the beauty in beauty never wanes

No bed is warmer than grave; without mutual acceptance love is vain.

Every things that are and were, now just waves on eternal time flow

One by one everyone bids us; fades away like a mere shadow.

Has the fate decreed this as inevitable, or this pain is just my pleasure’s loan?

Sailing and fighting what continues to hound, even my reflection do I own?
Redemption is what I need, is this a revelation of something else?

Or is it my misanthropic mind, that hates, loathes and repels...

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Street Food

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The Five Haunts

"Fear is the reason why we are here."

That rhymed.

As much as I love to make such instant quotes, today I am here to write about the five things that scare me the most:

1. Deadlines
To be frank, this the scariest entity that I have come across in my life. And it keeps coming back over and over again! True that, without a deadline, you cannot achieve targets on time and, you will have no sense of managing your day well, but what happens at the end of the day is: only because of deadlines, we run away from our commitments, and try to finish only the night before the exam, the day before the final presentation and the moment before the final call.

That is exactly what scares me the most. Because I feel that a human mind is wired to work the most under pressure situations. But what many of us miss is the fact that to cope up with the impending pressure which will come only the day before the deadline, our brain - our lovely, scumbag brain, commands us to stop working on the other days. This is true for most of the population of the world- at least for engineers like me!

Therefore, my hatred for deadlines still stays strong. And my fear for the same stays even stronger.

2. Rituals

Yes, I will start my discussion on this with marriages. As much as I love the union of two souls bound by the sacred means, I fear the rituals surrounding the same. Because when it comes to rituals, relatives often pull off things which usually make no sense. Why would they cook this before that? Why would they make us eat that before this? Why this cosmetic treatment right before the marriage? Why would they make the groom as well as the bride feel like a Mongolian (the haldi ritual) right before the D-day? Seriously, rituals are scary. And as much as they used to be the means of nifty funny incidents for the guests of a ceremony, they become the reason for some of the most embarrassing experiences when a person is at the receiving end.

I have been subjected to a lot many rituals. No, the marriage part is yet to come, but I was subjected to Annaprashan ceremony ( infant being force-fed rice for the first time in front of drooling cousins and stiffening elders) , the Thread ceremony ( the adolescent hipster look attained with a shaven head, a sacred thread around the shoulders and the body , pierced ears and saffron 'wraps'- the worst part of it was that the person subjected to this would not eat a single delicacy from the grand feast at night) and let me tell you, the rituals make me nauseous.

Apart from the cultural rituals, there are social rituals as well. You get into a decent college run by the Government, and your mother makes it a point to follow the daily ritual of bragging in front of the neighbors. You get placed from campus with a decent package and your father makes it a point to follow the daily ritual of bragging the same in front of his colleagues. The worst part of these episodes- exaggeration. Yes, our parents tend to exaggerate things to such extents that at times it becomes difficult to even remember what they had claimed I was , the last time.

There are certain rituals that even we follow. The ritual to stay up late at night watching movies on your laptop, the ritual to update your Facebook status at least once a day, the ritual to call your gf/bf three (?) times a day, and the ritual to post tweets throughout the day.

Apart from the usual humiliating experience, the reason why rituals scare me the most is- what will happen if one day I am asked to come out of them all of a sudden?

3. Epiphanies

When God made humans, he himself wasn't sure what he had done. My belief is He was probably high when He created us humans- high up in the skies. I know that was a bad one. Anyway, when He ended up making the most perfect creation of His, He decided to put in an ability in them. That ability was- to think. And with thinking, comes a thought-process. With thought processes, comes an epiphany. And they always come unannounced. They'll come at such a point of time when you would be performing a crucial task- taking a decision, taking chances, taking a dump etc. And when epiphanies arrive, they just have to change to you. A while back you'd be thinking of taking a step to improve your performance appraisal, and the next moment you are gleefully drafting away your resignation letter. Most of the time , epiphanies give you a rush to do something unimaginable; but the moment you have done that, *poof* it goes away, leaving you wondering- 'What do I do now? Why didn't I think through to the end of this?' and that's why, I fear epiphanies a lot. They have the power to turn our world upside down.

4. Algorithms
Algorithms are a logical outlining of a solution to a problem. This fear of mine is completely concerned with my studies. I guess you, my dear reader, might yawn a bit on this one, so I'll keep this short. As much as easy and harmless algorithms appear to be, trust me, for a computer engineer , they are the reason we still bribe the Gods. A code is implemented based on an algorithm, so when after writing thousands of lines of code, you test it and see that the output is as messed up as the curry you cooked last night, you wonder what went wrong even after the algorithm seemed to give the correct output. Naturally, days pass until when you are about to smash your head on your computer screen, you realize that the second-last step in your algorithm is the root cause of all the troubles. Bloody Red-Bull!

5. Misunderstandings

A fight was going on over the phone call. She threatened she would hang up, but she wouldn't do that because she respects you; you continue with your rants because you think you are right and she is acting all wrong. This continues for the next twenty minutes until suddenly the call drops and when you try to dial it again, it won't get connected to her and you conclude that she did it on purpose. She on the other side thinks the same, and a cycle repeats.

At many points in life, we jump to conclusions. Before letting the other person finish, we conclude something that wasn't what he meant at the first place. As it so happens, misunderstandings crop up. They relish the destruction that they bring with them. Their roles are especially damaging in relationships- with your partner, your parents , your friends, and your siblings. I have seen many cases where mere misunderstandings resulted in permanent disconnect between two people. Safe to say that this is one of the most feared things by me in life.

To conclude, we all have different reasons to worry, different conclusions to draw and different means to forget and forgive. Facing our fears is important, not because beyond fears there's win (I just translated that Hindi punchline to sound original), but indeed that would solve many problems in life.

On a happier note, if you take the first letter of each of the five fears in order as they are, then you will find what I love the most. Could you see what that is? *winks and plays Gifted Hands by Lynyrd Skynyrd in the background*

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Candidness

Thunderbolts reprove,

Amassed mist wail timidly,

Tears drip like white pearls.

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