The Rice story

Once upon a time, there was a grain of rice. It was called 'rice' in English, 'chaawal' in Hindi, 'bhaat' in Gujarati, 'saadam' in Tamil, 'La riz' in French and 'Arroz' in Spanish. So the English first decided that 'Rice' was the best description for that humble grain. The french disagreed (as they usually do to the English) and claimed that 'La riz' was the best Rice in the world. The Tamilian jumped in with full fervour (again, as they usually do) and claimed that theirs is the oldest and purest language in the world and hence 'Saadam' was the best Rice in the world. How can the Gujarati, the North Indian and the Spaniard be left behind? They all started fighting amongst each other regarding the best name for Rice.

All this, while, thousands of poor struggled for their daily bowl of Rice. Those who could not get it cursed Rice for being so selfish that he was available only to a select few. Those who had the Rice were busy fighting each other with regards to who had the best name for it. Soo, as it usually does, a fight broke out amongst two groups, both of who claimed the superiority of their name. Hundreds were killed in the name of Rice. It led to a new breed of disillusioned people who started hating Rice because of all the strife it had brought. They started believing that Rice is the worst thing that has happened to mankind and started mocking anyone who consumed Rice. All this while, tonnes of Rice was rotting inside closed godowns where only a select few were allowed entry. There was plenty of Rice for everyone but was available to only those who could pay the entry fees for the godowns. This led to further anger and disillusionment among those who could not get their Rice. They joined the band-wagon of Rice-haters, forgetting that they could have easily sown fresh Rice in the fields that were all around them. They only sought the Rice in the godowns.

All this continued. The fights among the speakers of different names of Rice continued, sometimes breaking into riots. The non Eaters and Eaters of Rice  argued, debated endlessly, both failing to convince anyone. Godowns were still full of grains which just a handful could get, and the others still stayed at the periphery, hoping to get a few grains now and then. The rights to sow Rice were assumed by the godown owners themselves, and nobody cared to grow their own Rice. Everyone wanted Rice, but they all blamed it for being so inaccessible and for bringing them so much misery.

All this while the humble white, carbohydrate laced grain merely sowed itself in the soil, hoping to grow into paddy and solve some of the world's problems.

-Shivam'da'

The exceptional

“Mass murderer at large!” screamed the headlines of every news channel that mattered, and even in those that didn’t. It is always easy to get terrified, and easier to terrify the rest. The dark, halo around the unknown killer was magnified a thousand times by the media. But why all the furor over a couple of killings (five, to be precise) in a country where thousands die daily due to starvation? The reason was simple. The murderer was not merely satisfied by killing. The dead bodies were found decapitated, swollen, with maggots feasting over the abdomen. It seemed as if the victims didn’t die an easy death. The manner of their death, or rather the hypothesis of the same, chilled the media and the audience alike. “Darling,” drawled Shekhar over the phone, “I am missing you!” On the other end was Rani, his girlfriend for the last five years. “I miss you too, sweetheart!” Rani replied coyly. “When was the last time we made love?” Shekhar asked, a clear hunger sounding in his voice. “Ummm, last month. It’s been so long now! My teddy doesn’t love me anymore!” Rani sobbed in a falsetto voice that only a girl can summon. “Today, 4 PM, my place,” Shekhar cut the phone with the words that mattered. He was missing his girlfriend too much to think about his pending projects, which had, in the first place, caused so much gap between their meetings. “One afternoon,” he said to himself, “is nothing. I deserve the break. And Rani needs it too.” For those who don’t know about him, Shekhar is a brilliant, often eccentric scientist at ISRO (Indian Space Research Organization). A Doctorate in Rocket sciences, his work in designing India’s premier satellites has been appreciated at the highest levels. Currently he is working on one of the most ambitious projects- a “spy satellite”. He refuses to divulge any further details regarding his project, and so Rani, his girlfriend thinks he is ignoring her. Shekhar was going through the newspapers when he stumbled upon the headlines of the mass murderer. Normally it wouldn’t have interested him much, but the journalist fancied himself as a neo-Sherlock and had carried out his own interpretations. They made a fun read, nonetheless. “…………and one hypothesis over the identity of the murderer is that it is a woman. Yes. An interesting lead that has come up points towards this direction. All the victims so far, have been men. All young, and upon searching their data, drawing a high salary. It could be possible that a woman trapped them with her looks and used their money. When they were no longer needed, she disposed them off in a manner that nobody would recognize the victims. Again, people don’t relate women to such heinous crimes......” Shekhar pondered over the lines. His researcher’s mind was already churning facts and spewing out solutions. The writer was not all that wrong after all, he thought. Women usually don’t commit such crimes and it is easy to camouflage if you are a woman. Shekhar wondered whether he knew the murderer. It would be an interesting juxtaposition of fate, he thought, if the murderer were his girlfriend. Hypothesizing further, he wondered what would be his reaction if Rani were to attempt to kill him. Perhaps he would hit her, he decided. But the very thought made him shudder. Hitting Rani seemed impossible for someone as gentle as Shekhar. Perhaps he would gladly accept death at the hands of the one he loved more than his own life. “But why would she kill me?” he thought next. He was right. Most crimes need a motive. Here, there was none. But then the newspaper article’s lines came to his mind, “It could be possible that a woman trapped them with her looks and used their money. When they were no longer needed, she disposed them off in a manner that nobody would recognize the victims…” He looked at the clock. It would be still three hours before Rani would come to his place. Too much time to bear the uncertainty, he thought. He picked the phone and asked Rani to come to his place immediately, as he had another appointment in the evening. He had to find out the truth, lay his doubts to rest. A bell rang. Shekhar jumped up all of a sudden. It was almost as if his trepidation was true. Rani walked into his house. Shekhar stepped back nervously. Rani gently passed her arms into Shekhar’s and hugged him. Sensing her stiff, she whispered, “What’s the matter darling? Too much work? Let me relax you in the way only I can!” Shekhar smiled. Rani thought it was because of her cooing the sweet words in his ear. She was partially right. It was because of her. But Shekhar was thinking how funny it would seem to an invisible observer that a girl first makes love with her boyfriend and then murders him in cold blood. Lost in ruminations, he never noticed when Rani had removed his shirt and was now removing her own clothes. Nor did he notice when she (or was it him?) removed his pants and then proceeded to remove hers. He never felt the passionate kisses that his girlfriend placed upon his lips, his cheeks, his neck and his chest. He didn’t hear the soft moans of Rani as he made love to her, almost absent mindedly. He never felt the nails digging into his back out of sheer pleasure that only a peak of delight during making love can bring. “Rani, can I ask you something?” Shekhar asked, caressing her hairs as her naked body lay on him. “Ask me anything, my love. But tell me, why are you looking so tired?” “My answer lies in my question.” Rani looked at him, dazed. She often had to put up with the idiosyncrasies of Shekhar, including his habit of speaking in complicated, roundabout sentences. “Tell me, will you murder me?” “What?” Rani was genuinely shocked. She had all the reason to believe that she had just slept with a lunatic. “Just say yes or no.” “Shekhar, are you fucking crazy? You must work lesser these days. All this work is getting into your head!” “JUST SAY YES OR NO!” Shekhar yelled. “If you ask me that question once again, I think I will definitely murder you!” “I knew it! So my suspicion was right all along. You are the one who has killed those five innocent men, haven’t you?” Rani slapped him once. And then one more time. “Its over between us! I bore your hectic schedules, your stupid habits and flights of fantasies only because I thought you loved me. It seems you don’t love me anymore. Our relation is dead today, and the murderer is you!” Saying this, she started dressing up. It was then that she heard her own voice playing over a recorder, “I think I will definitely murder you” over and over again. She turned around to see Shekhar smiling mischievously, with a mad glint in his eyes, something she had never seen before. “Walk one more step and I shall release this tape outside to the media,” he said threateningly. “Shekhar,” Rani pleaded with folded hands, “please understand. I am not the killer. I am in a relationship with you over the last five years, remember? Then how can I kill five men in a month and you would not know about it?” “We shall see about it once I bring my sodium pentothal. One shot and you would spill ut the truth.” “Shekhar, please don’t…” Rani pleaded, hopelessly, and to little avail. Shekhar seemed adamant in his delusion. “Now, I have to make sure you don’t escape,” saying this, he held her hands and dragged her to his closet. He opened it and pushed Rani inside it, saying, “Now you won’t think of escaping anytime soon. Wait for my truth serum baby!” Shekhar left with a mad, delusional glint in his eyes. It was dark inside. And suffocating. Rani was afraid of both. What was supposed to be a romantic evening between two lovers had turned out to be a grisly affair for her. One thing was sure- she was going to press charges against Shekhar. He might be mentally delinquent but she didn’t have to suffer for that. But for that to happen, she had to walk out of here, alive. And the suffocation and darkness was making it difficult for her. It was then that she noticed something strange. A rancid, odour coming from somewhere nearby. It was so strong that it shut out her brains for a moment. Groping in darkness, her hands finally found something. It seemed to be the source of the odour. As she passed her fingers over it, she felt two empty sockets, an elevation in the middle, and something fuzzy on top. In a shock she dropped the object. It was a human head she had held! And then the realization dawned unto her. Her boyfriend was not crazy. Not only crazy, actually. He was a demented, delusional murderer. She screamed aloud at the realization. There was no response. She kept on screaming till her throat started hurting, in the futile hope that it would attract the attention of someone who would eventually rescue her. It was of no use. And then something rolled on to her and hit her head softly. It was another head. Her eyes, having adjusted to the dark, saw two blank sockets staring at her. She could perhaps make out a thin outline of a smile on the decapitated head, as if it were inviting her to its home. Rani screamed again and threw the head away. She started banging the door of the closet. Shekhar was pacing across the room. It was then that he heard Rani’s shouts. “Serves her right”, he muttered. After all, each of those five men he killed, each locked in his closet till the last breath escaped their lungs and they would be suffocated by their own carbon dioxide, had confessed to having an affair with Rani. She had cheated him not once, but five times. And she was cheating him even before they were in a relationship. The first to die, Anil, had confessed that he liked Rani in school. School! So promiscuous was his girlfriend! Though nobody said that Rani loved them too, but for five men to fall in love with her, she must be sending them some sort of a signal to entice them into her honey trap! She deserved the worst kind of death. Soon enough, the bangs silenced, replaced only by a sobbing voice. Soon that would be silenced too, thought Shekhar, as he switched on the news channel and smirked at the theories of the identity of the serial killer. Usually, he never touched a woman. But Rani, she was an exception, and her murder, was exceptional.

Eyelash

This little poem is what Ranjni would call 'a flash of sudden imagination'. or rather a 'lash' of sudden imagination. The poem struck me when i was talking to a girl on whom i had, what one can call a 'crush' but things didnt work out. That time an eyelash fell on my hand and i wished that the moment would last forever. Well, it didnt. But then, it gave me this poem. Unlike my other poems, this is a little depressing due to the inherent sad tone.. Enjoy!!


Broken from my eye,
fallen on my palm in a flash
So near, and yet so far
Oh, my beautiful shiny eyelash.

Wishes abound hidden,
within the black cuticle of yours
And yet, thee, i wish to retain
just for the time, that was ours.

You irritated me, poking in my eye,
and often, you brought me tears
but without you, incomplete is my eye
for you were in it all these years.

Now you are gone, and have become a desolate's wish
and as I see you depart, i have but one desire
Come back, my love, to the eye of my heart
Come back, my love, for you, I admire.

Away, away, away you'll fly,
and before long, you'll be gone.
The lash of my eye, the beat of my heart,
why did you leave me alone?

A strange mistress

I Love….maybe you!

Love is a strange mistress. The more you pay it in the beginning, the more you suffer when it leaves. Falling for this sensual seductress was Vishal, who, on seeing Asha, fell for her completely. When someone asked him much latter what he saw in her in the first meeting, he would often gaze in the sky for a moment before smiling mildly and saying, “Perhaps her silky hair. And her expressive eyes. And her soft skin. And her dusky complexion. And her ringing voice. Well, I fell in love with her totally!”

“Let the reader of this note know that there’s a lot more to lose than just hearts when you fall in love.” Asha’s hands were trembling when she read the first line of the letter she was holding in her hands. She remembered the first time they met. That meeting had left an indelible mark on her.

“Hi! Do you know Zeel?” Vishal kicked off the conversation right away with Asha. She looked at him strangely, as if he were from another planet altogether.

“You are a senior?” she asked coldly. Vishal was used to being thought of as someone a couple of years older than he actually was, owing to his huge built.

“I am in your class only. But then, you might not have noticed me.”

“Maybe I have seen you. But I don’t remember,” she replied, trying to make up for her earlier goof.

“So, can I have your mobile number?” Vishal never hesitated asking the number of anyone. But maybe it wasn’t the case with Asha, as she clearly seemed affronted.

“I don’t have a mobile,” she said stiffly. Vishal looked a bit crestfallen, but started walking away. Just as Asha turned back to chat with her friends again, he turned back, tapped her on the shoulder and said, “My bad. I should have thought.”

“What?”

“That you are not the type who would keep a mobile.” Saying this, he started walking away. If he had eyes on the back of his head, he would have seen Asha turn red due to anger.

I loved her from the bottom of my heart. And she? She just played with me, like we play with toys in our childhood. Play with it, laugh at it and then, throw it when you don’t need it. Maybe I deserve this end for being foolish enough to consider her flirtations as being love. Stupid, stupid me! And she? Well, she was always forgetful. So maybe, she’ll forget me soon!

First year in a medical college is often remembered by everyone as being the worst phase of their life. It’s the period when one realizes that merely knowing English is not enough in MBBS. One has to be fluent in Greek and Latin too, just to know what does ‘sternocleidomastoid’ or ‘peroneus longus’ means. Asha was also cursing her lack of knowledge in the dead languages of the yore, when the lecturer jolted her back to attention with a shout, “Hey you, blue dress!” a dozen girls in a blue dress and another dozen in blue jeans looked up. Asha was one of them too. In fact, she was the one at whom the shout was directed.

“Yes ma’am?” she stood up apprehensively.

“Tell the nerve supply of biceps brachii.” Asha had not even opened the ‘red monster’, the textbook of Anatomy by B.D. Chaurasiya, and here she was asked a question whose answer formed one word of over ten-thousand written in the book. She was silent as a stone. Suddenly, she heard a tapping sound on her desk. Looking down, she saw Vishal scribbling on her desk ‘MCN C8-T1’.

“We are waiting, miss. If you don’t know, you may walk out of the lecture now!” the lecturer shouted again. She looked pissed off from the first minute. Perhaps the department had rejected her application to be an Associate professor.

“Musculocutaneous nerve, nerve roots C8-T1.” The lecturer seemed a bit shocked and crestfallen too, not having been able to carry out any punishment. Her simmering anger remained simmering and Vishal suddenly became something of a savior in the eyes of Asha. After the lecture, she came to him and held his hand, saying, “Thanks a lot Vikas!”

“Er, welcome. But you got the name wrong. Its Vishal!” he replied, surprised that she forgot his name.

“Oh yeah… I am a bit forgetful,” Asha tapped her head with her palm, and continued, “but thanks for saving my skin today! You know, I have worked very hard to reach here, and I don’t want to lose out due to any distraction. That’s why I don’t give out my number to boys.”

“It’s okay. Perfectly alright,” Vishal replied, growing increasingly uncomfortable with his hand still held by Asha.

“But I think I can make an exception for my savior. So give me your number and I will give you a missed call.”

Numbers were promptly exchanged. Messages followed later. Initially, it started the way it always does, with forwards, jokes, shayris etc. In a few weeks, the messages grew increasingly intimate as they started chatting on mobile. Then followed the “good night. Will miss you over the weekend.” And for the first time, Vishal felt that they were more than just good friends. And that was his first mistake.

She never seemed to care. Or maybe I had just expected too much of her. Didn’t she always say, “Don’t expect too much from others.”? Little did I know that she was referring to herself! I always expected that one day she would accept my love. Well, the whole world was busy loving each other and here I was, in love with a girl who did not want to fall in love.

“Vishal, are you serious?” a surprised, if not shocked Asha asked.

“The only time I was more serious was when I was admitted in the hospital. That time even the doctor said that I was very serious. Ha ha ha.” Asha got irritated. Vishal could not stop himself from trying to be funny even at that delicate time. He had just expressed to Asha that the amorous overtures towards her were truly an indication of her affixed place in his heart, and that with each beat, she grew dearer to him.
“Well, I love you too!” Asha replied coyly. Vishal could not believe his ears. In any case they were flushed red. His head thudded with blood as he realized the bliss of being loved by the one you love the most. He squeezed Asha’s hand tightly, and whispered in her ear, “I am so much in love with you sweetheart!” Saying this, he left. As he walked, Asha saw him jump a little while walking, and even heard him whistle for the first time. She shuddered inwardly, thinking what she had done.

Her fears came true when Vishal met her the next day and asked, “So, where do you want to go for our first date? Marriot? Taj? Or the humble CCD?”

“Date?” Asha asked, a little surprised.

“Well, yeah. Why?”

“See, I don’t go out alone with a boy. So, I am really sorry Vishal.”

“Um, okay. No problem!” Vishal replied a little crestfallen.

“And, there’s something…” Asha’s sentence was cut short by a shout from Harish, Vishal’s friend. Vishal went away, after saying a hurried “bye sweet heart”. Asha wondered how to explain things to him. She thought of messaging him or calling him up but it seemed too informal and rude. She had to clarify everything face to face. From a distance, she saw Vishal slapping Harish's palm, and heard him say, “It’s a bet!” That night, she messaged Vishal, asking him about the bet. He sent a cryptic reply, saying she would find it out the next day. Confused and worried, she went to sleep.

“Are you ready?” the under-dressed, over-enthusiastic host shouted to an audience craving for entertainment in the annual song-and-dance extravaganza of the college. A loud cheer from the audience, which was mostly directed at the skimpily dressed host, Alisha, confirmed that they shared her enthusiasm equally. One after the other, the crowd cheered and jeered, depending on whether the performer was from their batch or from the other batch. A few belted out some melodious tunes, and most rendered a crass cacophony, both receiving equal treatment of cheers and jeers. At last, walked in Vishal, who held the microphone in his hand and instead of singing, spoke something.

But of course it was a joke for her. Everything was. Vishal is always that entertainer who makes her laugh when she is sad; who lifts her bags when she feels lazy and who stops studying to talk with her when she is bored. Vishal had never been more than a joker, and his biggest mistake was to think that he was a king of his queen, Asha.

“Asha, can you come up on stage please?” Vishal’s voice emanated from the speakers. In spite of the excellent sound system and a thousand “go!” prompts from all around her, Asha seemed transfixed to her seat. It was as if she had not heard Vishal speak. Finally, after what seemed an eternity of time, she stood up and walked up to the stage.

“Here I am, Vishal,” she stammered. Deep down, she already knew what Vishal was attempting, what her reply would be and what his reaction would be. She feared the worst and knew it would come to pass.

“Asha, you proclaimed your love for me a few days ago. Will you repeat it in front of the college again?”

“But why Vishal?” she shuddered. Why do all the fears have a propensity of coming true?

“Because we love each other. Then why fear announcing it?”

“Because…”

“Yes?”

“Because I don’t love you Vishal,” she said blankly, trying her best to hide the pain within. Despite the excellent sound system, this time, it was Vishal who seemed transfixed and muted. After a thousand shouts from the audience prompting him to speak, he stammered, “But…didn’t you say…a few days ago?”

“Oh Vishal, how can I explain it? I thought you were joking with me! You flirt with girls all the time don’t you? I thought you were just playing a joke!”

“Flirt? Did you ever see me flirting any girl? Ask Alisha here. Have I ever looked at her? Half the class thinks we are a couple. I myself thought so!”

“I am really sorry Vishal. But I don’t have any such feelings towards you and I can’t lie in front of the whole college. I never knew…” before she could complete her sentence, Asha broke into a sob. Vishal too broke down on the stage. That was when the first tomato was hit on his face. It was only the first of the many that would follow.

Let the reader of this note know that I do not hold Asha responsible for my suicide in any way. I have always loved her, and will always love her. It was my mistake and I own up to it. Love you Asha, but hate you Vishal! Good bye!

Asha broke into tears. Why was she always so confused about Vishal? But, if she didn’t love him, then why she held the moments spent with him so close to her heart? Why she could never see Vishal even looking at another girl? Why her heart skipped a beat every time she saw him? Or was it just normal? She was all confused.

But then suddenly, she felt her heart speak something to her, almost in a whisper. It spoke Vishal’s name. Did she love him? Yes, of course she did! She loved him from the very beginning, but failed to recognize the feeling. Love may be blind, but it helps one see the best colors of life. Alas, people like Asha are color-blind for most parts of their lives.

“I love him,” she said matter-of-factly to Alisha, who had handed her the note. Dried tears formed lines on her otherwise pretty face. She was brimming with anger on Asha. Her indecision had cost the life of one of best guy she had ever known. Why, she wondered, it happened that someone loves that person who will never reciprocate, and ignores the one who loves them?

“I will save him!”

“What?” Alisha was shook from her reverie.

“I said I will save Vishal. Let’s go his home. For, if the ending is not happy, the story is not complete, Alisha!”
Alisha started her two-wheeler and the drove it like she had a hundred guys running after her. Within a few minutes, panting and sweating, they were at Vishal’s place. The door was open and the two rushed into his room. Vishal’s place looked every inch of a bachelor’s apartment. He stayed in a one-room apartment alone, not having adjusted to the hostel life. Alisha shrieked on seeing a line of blood. Being a medical student, neither were averse to seeing blood, but it belonged to someone they held close to their hearts.

Following the sanguine trail, they reached in the bathroom where Vishal’s pale body, devoid of a large amount of blood, lay. A slit was clearly visible on his wrist. Radial artery. Asha quickly took out her stethoscope and auscultated Vishal’s heart. It was beating, faintly and rapidly. The latter was the key. Tachycardia is the initial response to hemorrhage. There was hope that he could be saved!

“Alisha, get me a pint of Normal saline and an IV set. And an ampoule of adrenaline 1 in 1000 with the syringe.” Alisha hurried to the nearby medical store, while Asha tied a bandage proximal to the slit and also over the slit to prevent further blood loss. After that, she started with chest compressions as Alisha returned with the medication and the syringe. She quickly gave the adrenaline injection and started the IV drip.

“Who…who is there?” a weak voice emanated from Vishal.

“Vishal, it’s me, Asha, and Alisha. We saved your life!”

“Why?” he asked exasperatedly.

“Vishal, I love you.”

“What?”

No further questions were asked. No further answers given as Asha placed her lips on Vishal’s for a lingering kiss.

“I love you, Vishal.”

Love is a strange mistress. The more you pay it in the beginning, the more you suffer in the end. But it is indeed the potion that ends all sufferings.

Addicted

Olfacted into my system

coursing through my veins

your fragrance, oh, so ambrosial,

an antidote to life's most pains.



Addicted i am, addicted to you,

Aah! The hours spent with you, seem so few.



Stroking my longing lips,

calming my suffering soul

your touch, oh, so silken,

to do your will, me you cajole.



Addicted i am, addicted to you,

Aah! The hours spent with you, seem so few



Beheld into my eyes,

bejewelled into my sense,

your form, oh, so ethereal,

an image imprint on my lens.



Addicted i am, addicted to you,

Aah! The hours spent with you, seem so few.

Statistic

A statistic maketh a man
The man becometh a number.

The track is long, winding,
With numerous hurdles thrown in at will,
And running, slaving on it,
Are the zombies, toiling with an inked till.

A statistic maketh a man
The man becometh a number

A blasphemy it is, on the track,
To have an emotive quality.
And digits of the numerical kind matter
More than a human personality.

A statistic maketh a man
The man becometh a number

The track ends where the rainbow does,
And the gold at the end is but a Leprechaun’s.
But instead of seeing the seven splendid shades,
He grabs the gold at the advent of dawn.

A statistic maketh a man
The man becometh a number

Time to be aroused
From a wakeful slumber.
Stop once and think,
Is the effort worth the number?

Statistic

A statistic maketh a man
The man becometh a number.

The track is long, winding,
With numerous hurdles thrown in at will,
And running, slaving on it,
Are the zombies, toiling with an inked till.

A statistic maketh a man
The man becometh a number

A blasphemy it is, on the track,
To have an emotive quality.
And digits of the numerical kind matter
More than a human personality.

A statistic maketh a man
The man becometh a number

The track ends where the rainbow does,
And the gold at the end is but a Leprechaun’s.
But instead of seeing the seven splendid shades,
He grabs the gold at the advent of dawn.

A statistic maketh a man
The man becometh a number

Time to be aroused
From a wakeful slumber.
Stop once and think,
Is the effort worth the number?