James' Night Out

Most people would never give him a second look on the street. Lemmings, rats and business women, they followed their 5:30 piper to bus-stands, to paid parking lots, leaving James walking down the street all by himself. Because he preferred to walk, always had. Especially when it rained the way it did nowadays. For James, grey was the only color for a sky to be, unless it was June and he wasn’t working. Look at him, just for a moment. Throw him a disinterested look over your take-away cup—No, not that way. Just a glance, your eyes focusing more on the tar, the crack-filled pavement, the Hondas and Fords streaking red and amber down into the driving rain into the night of waiting cunts and late night TV. Because James will notice if you look at him directly, even if it’s for a second. And then you will never be free, ever again. Because James is like that.

He had a little money; he worked because he liked the walk to the Dairy Queen and back. Especially when it rained the way it did, nowadays. Because all the greats did that: Lester Burnham giving up his job in American Beauty, Kerouac quitting college. And James would tell you this was his reason, with the same ease he would use to click his way around the play lists on his battered ipod. With the same ease he chose his black leather jacket, with the same ease he walked out of his mother’s kitchen at sixteen. It had to be the kitchen, and it had to be June. James knew what he had to have, even if he didn’t know what he wanted: he needed the TV, he needed the ipod, he needed the jacket, he needed the 7th floor apartment in the boondocks of Portland. Walking down the street in his father’s battered drainpipes, eyes to the ground, ear buds disappearing under the shaggy ends of his ears, James had what he knew he had to have. But don’t think I know James better than you, I’ve just been watching more. Follow him, keeping a block in between; find out yourself. But be careful. It’s Thursday night which means drink specials down at Zooropa… and James is on the make. Don’t talk to him, don’t buy him a drink, don’t take him home. Listen though. Put your Nokia off.

“113 Broad Street. Low and warm, this place got an open door like the mouth of the cafeteria lady who knows how much meatloaf you want. It’s one of the few places you can still smoke indoors, and you gotta light up while walking in man, when everyone’s looking at you, you gotta practice. Make like Bette Davis with the eyes, Dean’s wrist action with your light, Bogey’s exhale. Make it look like it’s cancer but damn whatta way to go, because that’s style man, that’s where it’s all at. You know what that Kilgore trout guy, Vonnegut said yeah? “A classy way of committing suicide”. Don’t sit like you own the joint, you don’t. You’re the cat, you prowl man, just prowl, no one’s got nothin’ on ya”

The girl floating at the bar-counter two bodies away only sipped her long island, and waited. She had on a woolen beret and a scarlet mouth, her leggings were neon pink. It had been 20 minutes since James had walked in. She turned so she was facing him, still wearing his leather.

“And you don’t take off your jacket?”

“No darlin’, coz when you do you’re making like an old man doing his taxes while the wife heats up yesterday’s lasagna. On the prowl means you’re alive, ready to run, see, the moment something’s up, so the jacket stays. It’s all in the shoulder’s” He looked up for the first time. “And it’s in your legs. The only reason people watched Saturday Night Fever was coz Travolta was the cat babe, those boots walking, the street was the way he liked his eggs, ya know? His feet finding a way like magnets. Perfect, babe. Just like that” He looked her in the eyes “Perfect”.

The one thing I forgot to mention; don’t talk to James, don’t buy him a drink, don’t take him home. Most of all though, don’t look him in the eye.

She got off the stool, hearing her piper.

“Can I buy you a drink?”

He pulled her down on his lap; she slid down, sitting across him, her legs going on forever, like the 101 out to LA.

“Of course, fuckin’ of course, babe. You don’t ask me these questions, just look at the waitress. Make that the only time you look up from tonguing me”

She stares at his drink. Her hair is black under the beret, which she takes off and puts down on the table.

“But I ain’t tonguing you”

“Not yet. But you will be. Because see that’s the great thing about bars. In the old days you had to win a war and only then would you get the chicks. You had to be all bloody and sweaty, the movers always were. But then they invented bars. It’s a new war, and it’s all about who can prowl and walk away clean. All the booze, the music, the lighting—It’s why Ricky ran that little place in Casablanca. It was the same winning or losing, but clean. The bar is the last great gathering for men ever since one on one combat lost out to bombers, babe. Like the guys singing along to Frankie Valli in the Deer Hunter, ya know… just before they fly off to Nam and go ape shit over there. Like Eastwood walking in with those eyes and every body in that seedy joint knowing that this guys packing .40 caliber balls, Like Frankie in Some Came Running walking into that bar for the first time and seeing that Dean Martin smile, and seeing those Dean Martin hands, Like Quint, mayor Brody and Hooper on that boat in Jaws, drinking apricot brandy, telling stories and showing scars. Now that--”

She kisses him hard, the vodka and tequila finding his jack and coke, the rum getting left behind like always. And his face is glued to hers, hands in her hair. And when they stop, she looks at the waitress, who immediately comes over. She points to her glass and his, and nods. The waitress walks away. He whistles.

“Whoooee. Now that… that’s how it has to be, darlin’. Just like that. Perfect” She takes out a cig, it’s a Virginia Slim. Before it’s even in her mouth, James has it out in his fingers, bending the white stem, crushing the tobacco to the floor panels below.

“And why the fuck did you do that?” She asks, her face quiet.

“Nobody smokes fuckin’ Slims unless they’re the kind of woman whose thighs chill a beer quicker than a meat cooler does. You aint that kind of woman, babe. Always ask the man for a smoke, he owes you that, and he needs to light it like Bogey in Have and to have not, watching Bacall’s face turn warm by the flame”

“So can I have a smoke?”

He lit it for her. And they left together, walking down the street sharing ear buds, singing loudly along to Tom Waits, cussing out Billy Joel for being a rip off, stopping by a Rastafarian with gone eyes who beat his tight drum skin making the street quiver, the leaves shiver up and dance dervishes around in front of him while the people threw their dimes into a box that held his heart and a fetish of Elvis in white. They stared at posters of indie bands with names like Road kill Eaters and Marvin’s Not Gay, they ran over zebra crossings, they ran past Koreans mopping floors behind glass, dancing between the wooden chairs sitting upside down on tables. They kissed in front of the icebox in a seven eleven, and the sad Moroccan who pined for his green-card lover growled when James gave him a 20 for a single pack of Strikes.

They walked, singing and running part of the way, weaving between crack heads and fist fights, always the music and now it was power chords from the 70’s and 80’s, and he air-guitared the sky, falling to his knees, silent screaming to Alice Cooper and Van Halen, while she watched him, lighting up one of his Strikes, silent laughing.

Blondie started playing next and he gave an ear bud back to her, “And this is it, yes YES we gotta dance to this, darlin’” and they danced with solemn faces, knee to knee and he was smiling because this was just like Thurman and Travolta in Pulp Fiction, all in black silhouette and soft lighting under the one street lamp. They kissed like that scene out of Natural Born Killers, she clung to him like a ballad by Heart, all big eyed and trashy, but innocent here where there were no tube lights, no anxious brother hunting a Gilbert Grape up a dark hill, and he laughed into her mouth, and his hands were under her thighs, and she hopped her legs up, wrapped them around him, and they kissed like there was no oxygen in the cold street.

“These stairs babe, these stairs are like old scrolls and red-wood stumps, like grainy Wurlitzer records playing the old jazz; there’s a story in every plank, every stain and mark on this wall, every gun-shot some Chicano badge of courage, stairs are where it’s at babe, like Demi Moore breaking that glass jar with the penny, rolling down the splinters when Swayze’s a ghost, ya know? It’s where people tell the stories, like it’s the 1920’s, like young Corleone’s wife with Sonny outside in the evenings with her chair, just like that”

And only when they kissed then, James leaning her over the banister, did they hear the sound coming from 403, whose door was open, weak fish-eye light glowing in the crack. James pushed the door open quietly and by the light of a 20-watt bulb under a green lampshade, there stood an old man, singing along softly to Nina Simone on his old Victrola. They watched him shuffling his feet around the matchbox space between his couch and the toaster, with an old silk dress in his arms.

… My love is like
The wind
And wild is the wind

Give me more
Than one caress
Satisfy this
Hungriness
Let the wind
Blow through your heart
For wild is the wind

The room had the watery green look of a pool at night, porthole lights casting shadows of the swimmer against the sleeping blue tiles. The room was cool, and James walked in and sat down on the couch watching, all rapt.

You...
Touch me...
I hear the sound
of mandolins
you...
Kiss me...
With your kiss
my life begins
you’re spring to me
All things
to me

The old man raised his eyes and saw her. Still shuffling in time, he placed the dress tenderly, careful like a gentleman with a stubborn bra-hook, next to James on the couch. Shuffling back to the girl, he held out his hands with a little bow, and they danced like that, with Simone’s voice like grape wine and a grotto.

Don’t you know you’re
Life itself
Like a leaf clings
To a tree
Oh my darling,
Cling to me
For we’re creatures
Of the wind
And wild is the wind
So wild is the wind

And their faces were quiet, cheek to cheek, and it was solemn, like Cary Grant as Nicky Ferrante waiting at the top of the Empire State for Deborah Kerr to show up in An Affair to Remember, and he doesn’t know about her accident, just stands there in the black and white of night and watches from the closest thing to heaven in New York city. And when the song ended the old man smiled and she kissed his forehead, and they left without a word, James throwing a last glance of the old man next to the dress, whose eyes were closed like an old catfish, with lights from the street outside flitting across the ceiling like dolphins, like angels up on the surface.

And her mouth was no longer scarlet, and the ear buds were no longer hidden under his shaggy hair. Instead they tangled and became hard little knobs under her back, as he pulled off her sweater, and left her leggings on. As he struggled with his shoes, she leaned over and turned the radio on, it was 3:13am and there was Jazz, Yusuf Lateef blowing his horn. He froze and looked at her.

“Why’d you do that that, darlin’?”

“Because there should always be music”

And James threw back his head and laughed so hard on the floor above James’ laughing throat, a Mexican family’s youngest child turned uneasily in his sleep, seeing visions of the holy virgin accepting a freshly carved heart on the roof of an Aztec Teccalco. The child whimpered.

“Like that darlin’, just like that… to the jazz, that alto horn he’s blowin' it was meant to be drunk in with your body, and your sounds ya know?”

The Jazz was still playing when James leaned over for the bottle of cheap wine he had snagged from a convenience store, and the noises out of his throat were laughing and deep, a gurgling stream. He knelt down on the sheets in front of her, and held her face in his hands, smiling. “This is how it gotta be, see? Like Jerry Maguire meets Last Tango in Paris, you know the look on Paul’s face when he looks at her and says, Get the Butter? That kinda face-to-bone kinda hardness and need, and that conversation they have in bed, Jeanne and Paul, and she tells him about the child prodigy pianist she loved because he could play with both hands, and Paul says he bet he did with that look that you just know what he means : like that, just like that… babe”

And they kissed and James was tender because he remembered the old man singing along to Nina Simone, the empty dress in his arms. “That dress” he rasped, into her open mouth, “that dress was all he had left of her, see babe? And he held on… hold on… right there, just like that darlin’… Perfect”

And then they walked the eight streets down to the bank of the Willamette, his arm around her waist, while he sang along to the Rolling Stones.


“See darlin’, this is the kind of river the Boss sang about in that song… We go down to the river, and into the River we dive… it’s big and wide and living, that’s what makes a river different from a bay see, and you dive in and you’re clean again, you forget again. Damn… Bruce Springsteen, he got ‘it’, ya know…” They sat down, and it was quiet. He took out his switchblade, and bounced the moonlight off the clean metal like it was happy juju, like zydeco playing in June down at the Waterfront blues festival. “Rivers make a man think of women and death, babe, it’s why rivers are so personal, it’s why a man will always bring a woman to water when he wants to sleep with her the first time.”

She took out Slims and lit up. He stared at her.

“Now why’d you go do that, darlin’. What did I tell ya about smokes?”

She looked at him straight in the eye, and James thought how she had Bette Davis eyes, how she could start hurricanes with those eyes, like Storm from X-Men.

“So it’s either love or death?”

“A fuck or death, yeah”

She threw her cig into the water, and he smiled as they kissed, and her hand was over his, taking the blade from him. He held her as she gently played the flat cold steel against his forehead, his cheek. “I never watched any of those movies”.

“I know darlin’, but you will”

And James stood there like a young priest, bright-eyed and a little drunk, and the sky was cold grey like it is before every dawn here at the water’s edge. His arms cradled her like a bouquet of fragile vertebrae, slender legged, fragile pale skin. She was his offering to the bright light, the sun. The cold steel was at his throat as he hummed Tom Waits—

And I wish I was in New Orleans, 'cause I can see it in my dreams,

Arm-in-arm down Burgundy, a bottle and my friends and me

New Orleans, I'll be—

There. The blade at his throat, right there. And her mouth was scarlet, and her feet steady as she picked her way up to union station to catch the first greyhound out; maybe now she can be free. James stayed there, his eyes beautiful and vacant as the sun came up, playing plastic bags and silvered beer cans across the glass of his sight while Tom Waits sang a hymn to the morning. American Beauty. All the greats did that: Lester Burnham giving up his job, Kerouac quitting college. James was like that, and maybe it’s better you don’t listen, anymore.

Mystique, may 2003. Adobe. 

Hand of glory, april 2004. Adobe. 

Crimson Diamond, may 2003. Adobe. 

Psychedelic 3, April 2004. Adobe. 

Psychedelic 2, April 2004. Adobe. 

Psychedelic 1, April 2004. Adobe. 

Distance, June 2003. Adobe. 

burn, may 2003. Adobe. 

Purple, Oct 2003. Adobe. 

The space between, april 2004. Adobe. 

Starlit, April 2004. Adobe. 

Shadow and Light, may 2003. Adobe. 

Shiva, Oct 2003. Adobe. 

latin summer shower, may 2003. Adobe. 

Did this in 2004, and at the time it did mean a lot to me. Tweaked an original work, the bird aint mine, but the colour enhancing and the flames and sun and such are. Baby work, and yet...A phoenix was and sometimes still is, everything good- its not death, really. Nothing ever ends. And I like the way there's only one of 'em.  

Feather and Leaf, June 2003

Entered this story for the royal commonwealth essay writing competition, 2003. Its a competition to all the countries that belong to the commonwealth, so Im told it was quite a big thing. The story wrote itself in one night. I sent in the first draft. I was declared joint 3rd with a student from Namibia, here at their website:

http://www.rcsint.org/essay/winners/?os=103&os=101&subSection=winners2003&os=105#105

The story could do with some work. But Im still pretty happy with it.
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Feather and leaf


The smell is what you will always remember. The heavy-scented incense sticks, the agarbati, which always burnt at times of death. I can almost see those grey soldiers from the wars this country always had (will always have, forever, amen? One despairing, begs to differ) leaving their mud selves, the funeral smoke their last memory.... yes, always the incense. I’m trying to not breathe in the fumes; you learn to hate it, because you only see those slow curling black sticks when there is wailing, and crying, and terrible hard, harsh music: music to keep the unrelenting evil spirits away- (how do we know they're evil? Floating, flying, inquisitive...not evil, surely)- and death. Always death.

I walked out quickly, the soles of my feet being brushed by the light, silken folds of my sari (used to like that feeling). The same shame-faced, unnatural smile on all the faces I pass, all saying the same thing. It’s supposed to be one of sympathy, accompanied by polite noises and (that smell. Always that smell. Why?) "Your mother was a beautiful person, so cheerful, so patient with the pain, right till the end." (Mother. Don’t you dare talk about her. You weren't her daughter). I smile, painfully: it’s not that difficult to do now. I got out finally though, and stood on the cold stone porch, staring into the neem tree in front of me, letting the tiny puffs of wind blow strands of my hair across my face- (so, green is a calming colour...hmm) Why do they have to say anything? Funerals should be made of silence. In this, my land, my country (my home? No.) funerals are about noise and smell: agarbati and jasmine, and then the pipes and drums. But how can they be so sure the noise keeps the spirits away? Maybe the spirits like the noise. At least, that would explain why my old grandaunt keeps shuffling around the house muttering something about seven years of bad luck. I smiled at that, feeling my eyebrows ease out of a tight frown. Others would die. My grandaunt was immortal. At the end of days, when people of all religions would be praying or cursing, with fire and earthquakes everywhere, she would be standing over a pot of her simmering rasam, stirring and yelling at everyone around, just the way she yelled at all her children and their children's children, to keep away, at least till lunch was done. They live forever, old Indian women. They're stronger than rock...in fact, they are rock. (I’ve been broken too many times. Hardness must break sometime, and then what? pick up the pieces, or try living with the confused, doubting human softness underneath?)- But sometimes they die. My mother is dead.

Her last memory, of fire and agarbati. I looked up, squinting in the sunlight. Something had fluttered in the tree in front of me. A crow...no. It was a raven. My sarees' folds got caught in the rough coir mat on the floor. I stooped to untangle it. (Deja vu. Grandfather. Ravens flying, circling, cawing.... the old man is dead).

(15 years ago, when I was a girl in my father's house. My silken skirt, my pavadai, had got stuck in the door. As I had tugged to loosen it, the cawing had started. Shrieking, talking, laughing, crying in hoarse, hard voices. I had been scared. But our old man servant had told me it was just my ancestors come back as ravens to take my grandfather's spirit with them to the spirit world. "Is appupa with them?". "Yes, now he is". I had run out under that black circling cloud, calling out,” come back, come back appupa.... come back". The old man carried me back into the house, while I struggled to get free. I had heard appupa call back to me. My cries faded into the house, faded into the smell of incense, while the ravens outside shrieked and laughed and cried...maybe the old man said goodbye then. But I couldn’t hear him).


A Raven. The natives of this place (why can't I say my people?) fear them, and keep away from the black birds. Anything black in this country is associated with death. But those glossy, charcoal black feathers, and shining eyes. Cruel maybe, but evil? I never thought so anyway. (Thought. Hugin, Odin's raven...Hugin, who brought thought, ideas to men whom Odin blessed). Mythology was all people had these days to remind them of who they were: people with a past, people of an ancient land. Mythology and traditions. The black smoke, the noise, the rituals of ghee and flowers. It gave them an identity. I collected ideas, and stories of the places I travelled, things I saw (mother used to collect shells whenever the family visited the beach). And I wrote the things I heard and saw. Maybe, somewhere in all of this writing, I can find that one thought- a singularity- that I'm looking for, which will finally get rid of that pain I feel at night, when I lie awake. People call it fear or stress. (Maybe it’s an evil spirit. Maybe it's grandfather. That bird is looking at me, I can feel it).

The woman sat down suddenly on the stone, cooled now by the monsoon wind now rushing by in cold streams of wet air. Voices from inside shouted, laughed and chatted, while the odour of just-steamed white rice and fried mango cooked in a tantalizing curry of coconut, chilli and tamarind wafted out to the courtyard outside. Funerals, like weddings are social events: after the dead are sent on their way, the living have to be fed. People do get hungry, and grief cannot stop life, however heavy its hold. The girl still sat there, even as the clouds cast heavy shadows over the waiting, heated earth, staring at the raven in the neem tree.


(Hmmm... maang kutan. Smells just like mum's. She never forgot her recipes, and they always came out perfect. I could never remember them. Bad memory, she always said with a smile. Who needs memories to think about, when you can have ideas and words and music and thought....Munin, Odin's raven for memory. Interesting people, the Vikings. Warriors. They would die rather than show pain)

It’s always interesting to note how people all over the world differ in the tiniest of ideas and beliefs. Natives of India fear the big black birds, but the Vikings respected and honoured them. The birds stood for victory and inspiration. In India? Souls of the dead....spectators, sometimes messengers. (So maybe this is mother come to tell me something. Maybe goodbye. Will she stay?) When we had done the ceremonious feeding of the crows in my father's house to satisfy the spirits of our ancestors, everyone had noticed the one raven that had just sat and watched the others finish the boiled rice, and had muttered secret prayers. Quirky superstition. I had known it was appupa and of course he wouldn't eat. When did my grandfather ever eat a meal without a generous sprinkling of salt on his rice? But nobody listened.

My memory is quite bad, you know. People I met at weddings, and cousins I am supposed to have, have faces that I can never recall, and their relationships to me are even more blurred in my head. Even at Grandfather's funeral, when my mother had tried introducing me to out-of-town relatives, I remember -wonder of wonders- that all I kept asking her constantly was, "but where did appupa go?" I got an angry answer. (And then my mother's racking sobs, me tasting her salty tears on my face as she had held me close. Maybe she had never wanted to let go. Well, I can. Grieving is such a waste of strength. Mum's gone, but everybody goes someday. I’m not showing any pain. I have no tears. I can be rational about this)

But I do remember certain things. The way my grandfather would fall asleep, the sound of his snores gently crashing through the stillness of his room. The way my mother would stand damp and dishevelled, concentrating while stirring a curry or two... Concentrating while reading my first attempts at poetry. You see, there was a Dylan Thomas phase, and that coupled with my love for Khalil Gibran-one only loves life, and colour and beauty that much when one is fourteen- set me off on some rather startling imagery. But mother was always patient- Always a good cook. And a good mother. What was I then? Mum always called me her "kuruvi" or sparrow. But I never could agree. What sparrow could sit awake through midnight and till dawn on the lonely terrace of our house, wondering at the stars and the pyramids (and the Vikings. Warriors, forever fighting, sailing, dying). I love the night. It's quiet and there's a warm darkness, like the many evenings we spent in silence- the family and me watching the candles burn lower whenever the electricity failed. Silent living, appupa called it. You don’t get that much these days, simply because the electricity fails rarely now (GE, we bring good things to life?). Yes, I loved the darkness. I could be a night bird then, smoothly winging across a purple night sky, a shadow against the stars. Maybe a raven...


Mother always loved the stories I told her about my travels. She listened to them with as much quiet attention as she gave the twenty-three minute conversation I had with her long distance, three years ago when I told her that my husband and I were going to be divorced. I had not cried then, but later...it wasn’t her sympathy but her strength, which had unmanned me (perhaps unwomanned? connotations in the English language need work) . She had told me to never forget that the neem tree stands, whether scorched by lightening or aged by time. Even after its time of waking life, till its whole existence is nothing more than a memory of sunrises, sunsets and people who have come, been refreshed by its shade, and left, never to be seen again. Everything comes and goes, but the tree stands. Till God wills it to fall. But she was now gone.

The old watchman swivelled towards the sound of the sob he heard issuing from the woman. So she was finally crying. But he looked up immediately, as a drop fell on his head, then another and another. The monsoon had begun. He sighed happily, knowing he would get his hot meal now, and turned to look at the woman. His eyes slowly widened as he looked hurriedly towards the door. For there she stood, laughing at a big black wet crow in the neem tree, as the rain fell around her, merging with the salt tears running off her nose and chin.

I couldn’t help myself. I realise now, it could only happen this way. Mum always had a sense of humour. The raven was still there. It hadn’t flown away. And you couldn’t smell the incense anymore, in all this glorious wet. (I cannot reflect the Icelandic frozen whiteness some Olaf or Ragnarsson could. I am a leaf of a tree that has stood long ages, a leaf that dances in the wind, that burns in the sun then falls to earth dry, to break and die. Then to be reborn, and fly in the watches of the night into a final unending light, where dark wings are not feared, but all fly). The rain drenched me, and the street was empty, but the raven was still there.

The Paneer Conspiracy: the paradigm of local fast food, Oct 2004

Another project for that optional journalism paper. This was a survey article, and thus the spade work is more authentic than what I did for the interview with Murari.

Mea culpa, mea culpa...

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8:30 on a Wednesday night is rush hour at 312 Velluvar Kottam High Road –“Opp Good Shepherd Convent, Nungambakkam, Chennai”, as the address tag reads on the brochure. With glazed eyes gazing at tantalizing descriptions of pizza toppings, hungry groups of Nokia-enhanced teenagers and cricket-minded families of six force the waiters at Pizza Hut to whirl around with pans of steaming pizza, faster and faster around the noisy tables. The waiters themselves pause rarely, their adrenaline-pumped work continuing till 11 every night.

Pizza is definitely the most favoured of MNC introduced fast-food in this city, a place that has seen most other types of Western Fast food strangled at birth. Wimpey’s, the ill-fated burger joint was one of them, and it is seen that the various friend chicken franchises recently opened in the city may soon go the same way: empty tables and lounging men togged out in yellow and orange, greet passers-by who then hurry onto an eatery that is more populated, and better colour-coordinated.

While we are on the topic, why this aversion to fast food restaurants that serve only chicken? In conversation with the Marketing Head of Prime Roaster, I learnt that the meals were targeted at the “younger section of society”: the school children, the college kids and the full-sleeved workaholics. Taking this information, I went to ask this same “younger section” why the tables at Prime Roaster remain empty, in spite of a now infamously layered ad campaign, in which smug references to breasts and legs and thighs made mamis and accountants alike flee, yelling about “abishto” and the evils of advertising. The answer I got was overwhelming in its uniformity, and in its lucidity-

“No Taste!” cried Archana Baliga, a third year student of Literature at Stella Maris College. “No taste” nonchalantly yawned Kalpana Komal, a copywriter with JWT. “Yuck!” said Pratap, a vibrant young man, nine years of age who studies at Lady Andal School. Indubitably, us Chennaiites will entertain western fast food only if there’s a spin on the spice factor in favour of our taste buds.

So why does Pizza gain the smiles and the credit cards?

I visited their outlets to find out. Warm-coloured walls, painted with pop art images of the aforementioned waiters and their dancing trays, and of course the omnipresent pizza, greet me. The latest pop and rock tunes spill out from speakers, and everywhere there is the sound of conversation, clinking cutlery and the aroma of baking “deep pans” and “Italian crusts”- Just one of the few choices to make while eating at Pizza Hut, as responsible and free citizens of this Great Democracy. I stand, gazing reverently at menu cards that describe toppings, which make me wonder why I ate the staid curd rice and pickle at home. It is in that menu card that I find my answer. For here are descriptions that sound strangely familiar: “Paneer Do Pyaza” and “Tikka delight” are listed under the vegetarian and non-vegetarian menus respectively. Here, mozzarella cheese and Indian Tandoor come together in an East-meets-West dynamic that only a genius could’ve foreseen. Bhangra meets Britney Spears, and judging from the always-full outlet in Nungambakkam, Pizza Hut seems to have struck the right chord.

But hang on- so much for the Club Mahindra families, and young people celebrating everything from Valentine’s Day to birthday parties to graduations to promotions. What does the average Chennaiite think of Pizza, or for that matter, of our imported fast food chains?

Back on Nungambakkam high road two hours later, I cannot fight the growl from the depths of my being that declares the need for a quick bite. Looking up, I find myself on a jostling sidewalk, on which stands Apoorvas Sangeetha restaurant- “a/c, vegetarian”. Busboys run, and do not dance- wiping tables, bringing water, bills, more sambhar and napkins. People stream in and out continuously, swallowing masala dosas and vadais as fast as the kitchen churns them out. The air is filled with smells that remind one of paati’s kitchen, accompanied by distinctly “outside” smells of various deodorants, air-conditioning and chewed beetle nut. This is truly fast food: Within half an hour, you are dosaed, chutneyed, watered, napkined, toothpicked and billed. Satisfied murmurs tide me gently to the exit, and I join in the chorus. Light on the stomach, light on the wallet, easy on time.

Is there really a fusion of East and West then? Are we as a city willing to pay MNC rates [pizzas in Pizza Hut are bought for Rs. 525/-] for cheesy Tandoor? Who really does consume fast food on a regular basis?

More soul searching, more eatery-hopping.

The Red E, otherwise known as the Food Court was my next stop. Serving a variety of fast food from various cuisines, I decided to ask the friendly, plastic-gloved countermen who it was who ate the most frequently at this United Nations of Carbohydrates. The demographic hasn’t changed. I was told of batches of school and college children, young couples, and working men and women from nearby offices. Verified, thus- it’s still the “younger” crowd that goes in for fast food. Yet in Apoorvas Sangeetha’s, a famous chain of South Indian fast food, I saw happy eaters who ranged from 12 to 62, cell phone ownership no bar. True, there was no sign of the pop culture crowd; those were centred at Pizza Hut, and in the coffee places I passed on the way. It was then that Charles, one of the smiling faces at Red E, gave me a further insight into the matter. According to Charles, they saw more family crowds on Friday and Saturday nights.

I then visited Domino’s, another Pizza stalwart, and another outlet of Pizza hut. I wanted to ask about sales on weekends. And the hunch pulled off- The biggest sales by both fast food chains are made over the weekends in madras, whether through take-away or dining-in. Did this mean that Chennaiites still treated Western fast food outlets as speciality restaurants to be eaten at together with the whole family? This is popularly believed notion, especially among the “mature” sections of society. Prices in most western fast food joints are high, and thus these places cannot be eaten at frequently.

What of that younger demographic then? It was by now 7:30 in the evening, and passing by Ispahani Centre, I decided to drop in on Café Coffee Day. Overflowing with conversation and music videos, Coffee Day is the one place that is perpetually filled with java-guzzling and sandwich-munching college-goers or young entrepreneurs. I ask about Pizza and Dosa and am suddenly interrupted by a vociferous young man: Saikumar is a 2nd year student at Hindustan College of Engineering who loves being interviewed. Slurping on a cappuccino, he declares, “see, pizza and all is fine, but we eat here more often. Who has the money, machaan?”. A chorus of affirmations sounds in answer to that question. Thus I begin to slowly gather my threads of thought, while unravelling the Eater’s Psyche in this city.

According to Sai (short for Saikumar, as he cheerfully informed me), places like Pizza Hut was where you went when you were with friends, and it was an occasion, or with family. When it came to grabbing a quick bite or treating a possible girlfriend, it was Coffee Day, and other such snack points in the city, that serve this popular combo of coffee and filled bread. And it is no wonder: prices in Coffee Day range from Rs. 40- Rs.120. Pizzas come only in three figured amounts. I then ask about Apoorvas Sangeetha’s popularity among his contemporaries. I am greeted by grins, and am told by Ranjini, A third year student at M.O.P Vaishnav College that Sangeetha’s is always there, and everyone eats there- “But places like Coffee Day and Pizza Hut is where we hang out, yaar”.

It certainly seems that the marketing teams of these various eatery chains are cashing in on this fact. Every major (and minor) shopping complex in Madras has a fast-food joint, or two, or three. And it is always the same crowd, as that which is touted by the number crunchers of these eateries. And yet it is the Indian-based fast food outlets, like Sangeetha’s and Pathankot that receive the greatest traffic in clientele. I went to the new food court in Spencer’s, which is run under the still-popular banner of ‘Planet Yumm” to find out more. It is true- for every person eating at the Hot Breads or Pizza Hut counter, there were 3 people eating at Sangeetha’s.

Price is still a big issue. The average Chennaiite does not believe in spending big money on fast food. Among City College kids and still young yuppies, fast food chains spell lunch and early dinners shared with friends and the gossip of the day. But this is still a very small percentage. When asked about this, Retd. Col. Jaipal Isaacs [ a food connoisseur and a long-time citizen of Chennai] stated the case quite plainly- Why spend big money on fast food when you can spend the same money and eat at a nice quiet restaurant?

It is true that most restaurants have a price list that is more or less that of these imported fast food chains. Put it down to the conservativeness that Chennaiites are famed for, but it is seen that most do not see the tantalizing menu-card descriptions worth the prices. Sangeetha’s and Saravana Bhavan still seems to get everyone’s vote, for fast, clean and yes- healthy food. It is also seen, by majority and considering the total spending population, that sandwiches, burgers and pizzas cannot truly meet our gustatory requirements. Ergo the clever spin-offs on Paneer and Tandoori chicken. Paneer rolls, Paneer in pizzas, grilled Paneer sandwiches, and the same treatment meted out to the chicken.

It seems to work among the fast-food lovers, as is obvious from the symphony of chewing that surrounds me at Coffee Day, amidst the slurped coffee. As is obvious from the number of new fast-food eateries that have opened, based on the same concept of Indianized western snacks. ‘Java Green’, a Reliance venture, is one such eatery. ‘Aiwo’ is another.

And it is not only Tandoor that is being used: Pizza Hut is introducing Chettinad flavours this season to cater specially to the South Indian Market. This is an enhancement to their already existing range of ‘Pan Hindustani’, a range of flavours specially designed for the Indian Palate. Customers and pizza lovers at any of the 70 Pizza Hut restaurants across the country can now choose between a 'Veg Nilgiri', 'Deccan Chicken', 'Dakshin Paneer' and 'Southern Supreme' at Pizza Hut and enjoy the best pizzas under the roof in an atmosphere of fun and relaxed informality. Hm. One can only infer that even Tandoori pizza was too alien for our southern taste buds after a point.

And yet, in spite of luring us further with these amendments, there is still that milling crowd at Sangeetha’s that such corporate food chains cannot reach. A Veg Nilgiri will never have the pull of a masala dosa, and that is just plain fact.

I sighed, ending my Quest to uncover the Paneer Conspiracy. It exists, burgeoning, striking out at unsuspecting snackers, but wait- there is still hope. For if there is one thing that Chennaiites pride themselves on, it is their sense of tradition. We cannot forget driving in our thatha’s ambassador to Sangeetha’s for hot kaapi and vadais on the way to visit relatives on every alternate Sunday. We cannot forget stopping on the way back from school with our best friend, putting together hoarded pocket money in order to buy a Rs. 15 plain dosa with chutney. We cannot forget running in from the rain to take cover under the shop front of a Saravana Bhavan’s, and staying for a musambi juice. And in spite of the music videos, advertising, special offers and the “younger section”, when we feel a pang of everyday hunger, we turn to the ever-present vegetarian south-Indian fast-food restaurants that populate our city.

I drove past Coffee Day, seeing late evening stragglers just leaving through the glass door. Passing Sangeetha’s I turned involuntarily to look: there were people who could all be related to us, on the way back from work or tuition- eating, talking, living. Fast food with plenty of molagga podi and soul.

Here were no worries over globalisation, or health consciousness. In the true spirit of tolerance, Chennaiites balance out channa barota and club sandwiches. Whatever you choose then, based on price or spice, the philosophy seems to be- Just eat it.

History and a cup of tea- A chat with Timeri N. Murari; Sep 2004

We had to take optional papers for our third year, and one that I took was Journalism- The final project for which was meant to be an interview. I must make my confession: I never really did the interview as such. Mr. Murari is a wonderful person, with whom I've had many conversations, over the phone and during our rehearsals for our rehearsed readings of his book, 'Taj'. The rehearsal referred to actually did take place, and was in the banquet hall of the taj west end in bangalore. Mr. Murari's opinions are authentic, but certain facts like the biscuits were fabricated.

In the words of Oasis thus, don't believe the truth.

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“The Mughal Empire had fallen”, called out one of the actors in a solemn tone, as rehearsal for the reading of Timeri N. Murari’s ‘Taj: A story of Mughal India’ began. Historical figures rose up underneath the antique chandelier in the banquet hall, and spoke of intrigue, love, power, and the splendour of the Mughal Court. While Shah Jahan’s magnificent obsession with the tomb was being described, the author could be seen, quietly entering and leaning against a chair at the back of the long room. Listening.

T.N Murari is a quiet man. You can sense it in the way he sips his tea, at the tone of a wry joke calmly delivered, in the genuine interest he has both in conversation, and in the rehearsal of this reading of his ‘Taj’, re-released by Penguin to mark 350 years of Shah Jahan’s monument to love.

Murari has no qualms about calling himself a storyteller. "If I can tell a good story either on film or on paper " he says, pulling up a chair for me, " I am happy. I look at it as a craft”. It is this craft that brings Murari his extensive global readership: ‘Taj’ has been translated into eight European languages, and is on the best-seller list of the Literary Guild. In his historical novels set in India, it is the sounds, smells, textures and tastes in the narratives, and the basic human emotions that grip the reader. But why choose Indian History as subject matter for a novel, when almost every other writer of Indian origin chooses to eulogize urban India with all its colorful eccentricities? Murari laughs softly at that, and while refilling my cup, tells me about the Italian jeweler.
While at school in Madras, he was apparently told that the Taj was designed and built by an Italian jeweler, and this story was fully accepted, till an educational authority set the record straight. And later in life, when ‘The Imperial agent’ was getting published, American and British editors both wanted to put a picture of the Taj on the cover (never mind if it was only fleetingly mentioned in the book!)."It made me so mad," remembers Murari, "that their vision of India, especially in America, is limited to the Taj Mahal. I promised to write about it in my next book if only they'd remove it from the cover of my book at that time”.
Murari is passionate about the great stories of India’s past.” India had been there for a thousand years and you discover… it had a rich culture and a lot going for it. The British only re-invented it." Very often, Murari has faced criticism for writing about a time when there was a white imperial rule in India, which most Indians bowed to. He has been asked too, about using terms that are now politically incorrect: at a discussion in the Madras University this July, outraged students questioned the use of the word “pariah” in ‘Taj’. Murari at the time calmly wiped his glasses, and went on to explain how the word was used in context.
Murari’s other historical novels that deal with India at the time of Independence have also come under fire from critics. They have claimed that his books undermine the freedom struggle, and show the British in a favorable light. In response to this, Murari wrote an article in The Guardian newspaper, four years ago, saying: "This is a part of India, as much as the Mughal past, the Afghan, the Turkish. You may resent their rule but you cannot deny their place in Indian history. To do so is to be false, to be, blinded by resentment. They've shaped our minds and changed our future by their presence. There will come a day when history will be rewritten to deny their existence, but that history will be written in their language”.
“Takht ya takhta!” thunders out the actor who’s reading the words of Shah Jahan in Murari’s novel. “Throne or coffin” is the meaning of that Persian phrase, and Murari smiles immediately. He has always loved the blood and fire of the Mughal period, and has claimed that he enjoyed writing the Taj the most simply because of the research he did for the book. Murari blatantly states that his best research was done in the New York Public library, which ironically has entire collections of texts written during the Mughal period in India. None of these texts were available in any Indian library, such as that of the Aligarh University. Murari traveled from Kashmir to the Deccan, following the trail of the emperor Shah Jahan. What still brings an angry gleam to those intelligent eyes underneath bushy eyebrows, is that none of the Mughal architecture is preserved. In his travel, Murari came across countless tiny forts, campsites, and pillars all over Rajasthan and Madhya Pradesh that were crumbling, unnoticed.

Murari spares no one his diatribe against those who cannot care for their own archaeological heritage. Why is it, he asks, that an American library has the complete collection of a part of Indian literary history, while in India we stick movie posters on monuments that should have been declared national heritage sites? He rarely receives answers to this question, but instead finds himself pulled into the ongoing, much-lashed debate over Identity and Indian writing in English.
At this moment, Maureen smiles, pushes back her pale blonde hair and comes to sit next to her husband. Murari takes her hand in his, and continues to tell me in wry amusement of the labels he has received over the years. He has lived and studied in a variety of places, ranging from Montreal to Liverpool, but his roots have always been in Chennai. In fact, two of Murari’s novels are set right here in Chennai. With his Australian bride, he has traveled and taught, written in newspapers and for television documentaries. Is it a conflict for him, an Indian who has lived abroad for so many years, writing stories of India’s deep past?
Murari laughs. And asks me whether I would like a good day cashew biscuit with my last cup of tea.
No, it is not a conflict he says, his eyes trained on the actors rehearsing. There is no choice to be made at all. “Identity? I’m Indian. I write books. Why does it matter?” Indeed, why does it? Murari, just as he sits at the back of the room during rehearsal, chooses to not step into the debates presided over by the literary intelligentsia of our country. He in fact writes on a range of themes. ‘The Shooter’, for example, tells of the story of a Brooklyn cop in America. ‘The new savages’ is a book about the riots in Liverpool. Murari has worked and lived in both places, and thus, without actually saying it, makes a final comment on his writing.
T.N Murari writes what he knows and what he has seen. He has a fine sense of drama and a word craft that can recreate the pageantry of a Mughal harem or the foggy streets of Liverpool at 3:00am with the same effortless skill.
He is happy to live with his wife in his ancestral home in Kilpauk, surrounded by memories of his family, as well as phone calls asking him about turning his latest book in a mini-series for hallmark. Why not, he twinkles- It’s a wonderful boost for my ego. Maureen laughs, and we sit back to watch the final scene at this rehearsal, as lights come on outside, and Murari politely asks a waiter to bring one more pot of tea. Wah, Taj. Wah, Murari.

Giaz's story. March 2004.

Sounds of crickets overhead in the trees. A growing chill through my fingers, and a familiar pounding in my gut. For the hundredth time, I tell myself I should’ve pissed before I left base camp. No way was I going to now- Some bastard of an angrazi comes up behind you and all you have in your hands is your... yes, well. I wasn’t taking any chances. That’s how you died early. Go the old way; keep your head down, and your rifle cocked. A bead of sweat swam down my face, just like it did that first day I saw a real killing. That day...Faizal had shot an Indian jawan, and stood there, watching and smiling as the man died. He lovingly polished his gun that night, while I sat and stared into the canvas wall of the tent, smelling the man's blood in my nostrils.

There's something about watching a man being shot down...he just falls. That’s all. Like an old tree when you cut it down. Rustling in front of me- Faizal getting restless again, because he hates waiting. But we must wait, and watch. It’s what standing on lookout is all about. Crouching, anyway. Among the undergrowth, in the bushes, while insects crawl into every pore of your body, and your own sweat freezes you into a waiting statue, nothing living but your eyes, and that trigger, glowing red hot as the hours go by. Crouching, on the side of this hill, overlooking the American camp.

The insects didn’t bother them so much. The Americans lived in tents with electrical lighting. We crawled in darkness, on our bellies, squatting in mud. The lights flickered below- warm. Comforting. Even their sentry guards were at ease: they had nothing to worry about... no afghan villager or trained mujahadeen would dare try anything at this time of night, at a time of ceasefire. It would mean the deaths of villages full of people. Not innocent civilians. Who the hell is innocent these days? You steal a chicken, look at another man's wife, get drunk. Why not? It is after all, a life to live. No, not innocent. But people anyway, even if some of their actions did cause such animals as Faizal to be born. You must realize of course- Faizal and I are brothers, united through blood, religion and the Cause. But he is an animal. A beautiful animal, constantly moving, constantly desiring life, and death. He lives to die, gloriously, and would- if he could- recount the tale of his death to the rest of us with as much zest as when he told us about his escapades in the highway brothels.

The camp lights flickering below, and a growing pain in my left calf. Shifting my weight again, I stare at those lights, massaging my calf. If Naseeban was with me, she would have rushed to do it herself, chiding me for preventing the execution of her wifely duties. Those lights remind me of the night of our wedding...or maybe it's because I’m so tired... yes, our wedding night. The same warm glare from the lights...the same chill in my hands. I hadn’t seen Naseeban, though of course her father had said she was beautiful. Of course he had. But she was, as I found out. That first night was terrible. She kept looking at me with an adoring gaze...apparently the fact that I was a hizbul mujahadeen made her think that I was filled with some strange power... and the very thought that such a thing- the power of inflicting death- could be worshipped this way terrified me. As you can guess, it didn’t leave me in a mood for anything other than a cup of tea. Naseeban thought it was her fault. Of course she did. She sat on the edge of the bed, gazing at me out of mournful eyes. I stared back for a while, then- I was tired even at that time- fell back on the bed, and tried to get some rest. But those eyes... finally, she got up and went over to my gear. This made me turn and look at her- She was still a child, and I didn’t want her howling in pain after having hurt herself by mistake. She found my knife... a sudden movement by the guard catches my attention. But it’s nothing, and I let my breath go noiselessly: the white man is only relieving himself in some bushes a little to the right after the clearing. I knew I should've pissed before I left base camp.


I slide the blade back into its sheath. It moves noiselessly, well greased as always... She had eased it loose just as easily that night. With a strange reverence she had felt the edge of the blade, letting the full flesh of her finger rest against its tip. I opened my mouth to warn her, but she stopped me with a tiny smile. She told me she liked my knife very much indeed. I told her- almost out of relief, to find conversation possible- that it had been my grandfather's. Again came that look of reverence. Slowly, she moved the cold steel over the soft skin of her inner forearm. Slowly. Then up, at her throat, while she traced the edges of her jaw with the flat length of the blade... then lower, over her chest, stopping just where the neck of her salwar began. I was mesmerized, my eyes never moving from her. Coming towards me, she knelt down on the mattress, smiling that same smile. One swift motion, and the salwar was gone, leaving nothing but- Naseeban. Still holding my knife, she now moved the blade lower...I could feel her breath catch as the cold steel touched her warm flesh...moving lower as she closed her eyes, opened her mouth and sighed. Well, it was all I needed. Allah, she was so beautiful. An animal…like Faizal. Beautiful- of course. But maybe it was because she was so young. That knife re-appeared on many occasions between us... she would always tease me, and I happily over-powered her. But then she grew older, surer of herself. Then that knife became a symbol to her, a symbol to be worshipped.... like she once worshipped me. That knife...easing it loose, i hold it naked in my hand, holding it flat against my forehead. Its coolness always made it easier to think. Looking up, I see the stars have moved silently…a memory…they had moved this way that evening my father had given the knife to me, on my 11th birthday. It was the day he said I had become a man. A man, who would fight for the cause of jehad, who would sternly live by the word given to me by my father and his father, and his before him. That knife stood for everything I was taught to believe in, my very manhood. Of course it had power. And Naseeban had felt it.


But at some time, I had come to hate it, and her. The exultant feeling she would get holding it. The way it had to be cleaned after every killing. I’m a man, but I'm not Faizal. I never had stories to tell at night by the fire, of strange women and what I did to them. But Naseeban dared my manhood... I remember that one night. She was playing with the knife again, and refusing to come to bed. I had caught her in my arms, and had thrown her down. I was ruthless- I wanted to destroy her. To show her who was master. But she had gasped, laughed and had given me as much as she got. After it was over, she had smiled... as for me, my hands grew cold, and there was a sick feeling in my gut. Naseeban and that knife, they both wanted to make an animal out of me.


I just want sleep, and an end to all of this needless thinking.
Another sudden movement, this time from Faizal. Turning around, he smiles at me, and then mouths terrible words: he needs to make his killing now, because he's bored of waiting. Bored, he says. The next few seconds flashed by. Before I could stop him, Faizal crawled closer to the sentries, to get them within his range. One shot, two shots. A horrible cry, from the American. Another shot, and Urdu curses. Faizal was down.
He's as good as dead.

Another shot, and I’m running. Faizal is dead...Faizal is dead... I run for about 20 minutes, noiselessly, the way we had done for years. Running, always or crawling. Till I reached the hole in the side of the mountain where Faizal and I often hid our supplies. Crawling in, my hands tremble.... crawling, always crawling- why? I just fit inside the hole, which tunnels into the side of the mountain. The Americans didn’t know about it. I think it’s because they cannot understand that men will crawl and hide shivering in holes in the earth to keep their lives. But I cannot blame them- When did they ever have to hide? I can’t light a match- the little air that is in the hole will be gone then. I move forward on my knees and elbows. They can’t see me, but I can hear them. Footsteps running past, commands given. Angry voices. And finally, the silence. Dark Silence.

I need air. I need air.

Crawling back out, gasping for breath. I lie flat, my face in the good earth, hearing the birds. Dawn was breaking, again.... those birds. Faizal’s birds. Faizal loved birds. The last summer we spent training back in our camp, I remember him lying on his back under a tree and watching them, with a smile on his face. It was the only time I saw him still. He was still now too...lying somewhere like me, in the mud. Except I’m breathing. Salt running down to my mouth, and I taste it. I’m so hungry and so tired. I’m crying for Faizal. Mourning the death of a beautiful animal. I sit up, rubbing my eyes with my sleeve. Why in hell wasn’t I dead with him? Fear. I was scared. I ran away, and let him die alone. A bird fluttered above my head in the trees. I’m trained to die. I am Giaz, a hizbul mujahadeen, and the son of fighters. But I ran away...

Giaz sat there, like a five year old playing in the mud, his head lifted as he watched the treetops sway gently in the dawn light. But his eyes were blank. His rifle fell to his side. But he still held his knife, grasping the hilt hard in his clammy hands. Suddenly he stared down at his blade. He had run. It was excusable: he had had no sleep or food for days. Men act strangely when they are miserable. But he could still fix it. There were still Americans to kill. And he could die in honor.

I breathe easier now. Lifting my head I take a deep breath. There were still Americans to kill....

why kill? Who wins in the end? Not you, anyway.

Damn that voice, those words. I try not to listen. But it’s no use. That voice is mine; I know it. Faizal, wait for me....

Giaz walked quickly, yet noiselessly through the undergrowth, till he came back to the lookout point. A new guard was armed and standing watch. Young Americans. Boys with guns.

But we aren’t much different, the voice said. And we started earlier.

Giaz watched them for a few moments. They were both nervous. But one guard whispered to the other, and they both laughed. It was just a moment, and then they went back to being silent. Watchful. But for Giaz it was enough. They can still laugh. For the second time in two hours, Giaz walked away from what he had been trained for his whole life.

They had laughed. I cant remember the last time I laughed. Laughed like that, out of pure enjoyment. I walk on back to the hiding place and sit down, sighing. Those boys can go home from this. Can walk on, not to run away or hide, but to actually leave this entire killing behind them. I can’t kill them. I cant...I cant? Then Giaz must die. Killing is all I know. But I cant live like this. Change then.

I can’t change. I was born a jehadi; I'll die a jehadi. Giaz thought of what his appearance must be like, and smirked. I’d be known anywhere. To change would be to give up all of this. I can picture my father's face, watching me cutting off my beard with this knife- his knife. It almost makes me laugh. I can’t give up what I am. It would mean leaving tradition, beliefs. And I can’t bend that much, I'll break. Would you?
Yes, I-
No. No, I wouldn’t.

Giaz thought fast, his blood pounding in his ears. He knew he couldn’t stand here forever. His own people would think he had deserted if they found him- it wasn’t uncommon. And they would kill him. The Americans would find him soon here. And they would kill him. To leave, to truly walk away...The sun was up by now, illumining the whole hillside, blinding Giaz with its light. Change, now.
It happened like clockwork, in a few minutes. Giaz shaved off his beard with his razor sharp knife. He cropped his hair, and wrapped himself in an old blanket he carried. He looked like any other starving native of these parts.

I feel lighter now. All that’s left to do now is walk away.

Throwing his clothes off the side of the hill, Giaz staggered off, towards the Indian border town of Pohra. They would let him in, thinking he was just another poor, mad Kashmiri. Mad- why not? Why not. Just let go.

Walking, feet moving, tiny pricks of pain from thorns in the soles of my feet, and the cold air freezes the trickle of blood from a nick between jaw and throat. Keep walking. Just a little way, just a little more…


At three in the afternoon, later that day, a man was seen staggering into Pohra. He collapsed near the water pump. The Jawans tried questioning him, but from his silence, they concluded that he was just another shell-shocked civilian who had evidently lost his mind. “Leave him. He’s gone. We'll tell the hospital about him". Giaz, or what was Giaz closed his eyes, hearing the footsteps go by. I’m gone. Slowly he got to his feet. A sob shook in his throat. I am gone. And for the first time in many years, Giaz threw back his head and laughed, tears streaming from his eyes, as the women at the pump hurried away, water slish-sloshing from their pots.
A year later, a thin, middle-aged man sat under a tree, wrapped in a soiled yellow robe, his shaven head thrown back, as he listened to the birds in the branches above him. He spent his days now sitting quietly in the shade. When he spoke, it was about the uselessness of killing and of wanting death. The people -whoever thought of him at all- thought he was a wandering Buddhist monk. He was poor enough. They called him bhaba.
For the fifth time today- he was counting now - he smiled up at the tree, at the birds, at heaven. He had stopped thinking about Naseeban a while ago. She was happier this way, the widow of martyred jehadi. She could find another knife. It didn’t matter to him anymore. Some nights, he wondered if she was all right. But it passed. You cannot always be thinking of someone else. Faizal was gone, and so was Naseeban. He lived now; an old tree struck by lightening doomed to die, but still standing. Scarred and empty, lodged by its roots in the earth, in an unconscious tenacious grip. Sometimes, he tried speaking of peace. When he did, it was quietly and slowly, thinking of every word he said. Weighing it to see if it was true. Peace was not an easy concept. It was easy for the white-robed man in the prayer house to say the word often, looking up at the statue behind him.
The man in the yellow cloth shivered at the thought. That statue- a crying man nailed to two wooden sticks, bleeding. It was horrible. He remembered how the first time he had seen it; he had run outside, and curled up under this same tree, sobbing in fear and pity and sadness.

Peace cannot be bought through blood- anyone’s blood.
Those people think I'm a holy man. I’m not holy. The birds know, though...all I did was to throw away that knife.

Lying down flat on the ground, the man smiled once more, the corners of his eyes wrinkling as he did so. Six. The wind blew over him, carrying dust and whispering in the dancing leaves above, as the sun set, an orange globe sinking behind the shoulder of the hill. Stars shone, as the mans eyes shut in sleep, as he murmured, the words lost in the bustling leaves- "Goodbye Giaz...” The wind blew out over the hill, and darkness fell.

The Whine of Life, January 2004.

Fairytale spoofs are easy and fun. Not that this one is perfect, but it was fun. Just wish I could've put music to the Weed Song [Scroll for it]. The script was written by me as my college's entry for Natak 2004, an inter-collegiate drama competition in Chennai. 'Whine of Life' walked away with the most awards: best production, best supporting actress, best costume, best direction and best script. I was also nominated for best actor. Some kid who acted as an angst-ridden teenager who was fighting the urge to join a terrorist group won it. Go figure : )

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THE WHINE OF LIFE
By Priyanka Joseph

Jack
Jack’s mother
Giant
Hen
Harp
Story-teller
Chorus

STORYTELLER: (Enters humming the nothing song) Stay away from my house and my car, and I’ll stay away from yours. All right. Good evening to you all. So- you’re all happy, eh? You, fatty- you look like you’ve eaten enough to feed 10 PMSing elephants. You all have it so easy. What are those? Shoes? We haven’t had shoes in 20 years- Cooked and ate all of them. It is a hard life in this poor little village, whose name is... poor little village. We're all too tired to name it. Oh our poor little village has problems and pestilence. We have Hamlin’s rats, and Elliot's cats. Everyone is unhappy. This year there were 100 visa applications to the rich big village, over there. And this is strange because we have a population of (counts on fingers and toes) 23, and a half. – Who’s the half? Oh, that’s Bob, the transsexual waiter at the tavern- People want to emigrate with their dead relatives as well. All the nuclear waste in the soil is ruining their complexion. We, the people of poor little village like to look good, even when we pass out- err, pass on.

CHORUS: We have our pride, we have our tradition
Our grandpas in old age homes we do shun
Our cows make pies and so do we
We all wish we had our own apple tree

Everyone is unhappy. There is uranium is in our wheat. We cannot eat. Farmer Smith is starting a party, with speeches instead of beer: he wants to revolt against the government. Not Working. Everyone is unhappy. Everyone- except Jack.

Jack is happy. Jack lives with his mother. Jack, is happy. He is happy doing nothing. There's a famous question in our poor little village-
Jack, what do you want?
And he always replies, saying-

JACK: Nothing, just nothing.
[Chorus runs forward as villagers]
CHORUS1: Jack, here comes Bouncing Betty. Why don’t you marry her?

JACK: Nah, I’ll have to bathe everyday. She ain’t worth the trouble.

CHORUS2: Jack, here come the famous sathyamangalam smugglers. They’ve gotten rich smuggling sandalwood to the Rich Big Village. Join them and you can have anything you want!

JACK: Anything?

CHORUS2: Anything! What do you want?

JACK: Nothing, just nothing.

CHORUS3: Nevermind all that, Jack: lets go to the tavern and have a couple of beers.

JACK: Who’s paying?

CHORUS: Oh Bob will let us have credit at the tavern.

JACK: Wait a moment- what do you have to pay for the beer with?

CHORUS3: Nothing.

JACK: When you finish your beer, what will you have?

CHORUS2: A big bill to pay. (Sniggers)

JACK: No- you will have nothing! Just nothing. Might as well stay here. [Chorus sings the Nothing Song.]

The Nothing Song
Nothing is something in a far-away land
Where the sky is as huge as the palm of your hand
Anything is too much of a worry
Something’s a bug that will on eight legs scurry
Nothing is a lot in the short and long run
Your hands are free
You can catch rays of sun
Accept the fleas and you can jump seven seas
When you have nothing you're as light, as light as air
Oh, to not have a care!
So we wish you nothing
And best of nothing
And congratulations on your nothing
And merry nothing
Nothing greetings!

JACK (yawns, stretches his arms above his head and scratching his head, and says): Ma, Daisy has been nibbling at that strange large plant for the past two days. What is it anyway?

MOTHER (entering with a pair of spectacles on her nose): Seems to be Pisum Sativum. Must have mutated what with all the Uranium in the soil. It’ll probably come to nothing, Jack.

JACK: Ah, good.
[Shouts from Farmer Smith and his small crew carrying placards can be heard offstage. They come on, stage left. “Vote for smith”, “Smith’s your man”]

JACK: Lordy, I ain’t staying where that Farmer Smith can bellow in my ear about joining his stupid Party. There ain’t any beer even, Mother! I’m climbing that strange vegetable. Maybe then he’ll go away. [Climbs. Enter Farmer Smith and his tiny group]

FARMER SMITH: Ah, Jack my boy! Just the young person I need in my party. What are you doing up there?

JACK: Gardening. Leave me alone!
[They all gather at the base of the beanstalk and look up at Jack, along with his mother]

MOTHER: Oh dear, its quite high up! Jack dear, come down!

FARMER SMITH: The idiot actually seems to be trying to get higher!

WEED SONG
SOMEONE: the green weed is taking jack higher
MOTHER: it’s a pea plant!
SOMEONE: never knew he'd be a flyer
MOTHER: it’s a vegetable, matter for salad
FARMER SMITH: wonder if its sale would help the economy
MOTHER: my jack is a good boy, stop this ballad
SOMEONE: at least it relieves life's monotony
SOMEONE: maybe we should cut it and try some
MOTHER: I wish you’d all keep mum! Oh my jack
FARMER SMITH: no we should wait for him to come back
MOTHER: Is there hope then, for nobility of the human spirit?
FARMER SMITH: I just want to know if the trip was worth it
MOTHER: heavens
SOMEONE: a dream
FARMER SMITH: a trip
MOTHER: Jack

SMITH’S GROUP: we'll stalk him like a wolf. We won’t let this go.
Bean disappointed before, won’t take no more
He better come back with good news
FARMER SMITH: or he'll have his head to lose
EVERYONE: (all) what?
FARMER SMITH: of course, its something we all must choose
A human sacrifice is what this land needs
Better than all you’re priestly prayer beads
Peace
Blood
Salad
Jack
Peas
We want!

SOMEONE: Speaking of priestly, has anyone seen our priest? He wasn’t at church on Sunday.

SOMEONE: Oh, he climbed up yesterday to see where the beanstalk leads, and if there was a heavenly connection. The path to salvation, and all…
[Someone plays Stairway to heaven intro chords. Everyone turns around in sync and yells]

ALL: Aww, shut up! That’s only for old ladies.

MOTHER: Jack, be careful!

SOMEONE: Someone throw him an oxygen tank, he’s already blue around the gills!
[Lights Off]

Scene 2
[Stage in darkness, except for cold blue light and the sound of a blowing draft. Jack seen staggering around with his hands in front of him, trying to see in the dark]

JACK: Its like some dark cave… hope there aren’t any bats. It’s so cold… One should not enter into places where the door is so hard to open. And the door closed again on its own! What is this place?

[Sound of door opening. Big face seen. Screams of priest are heard. Cries of ‘Please no!’ ‘In the name of Heaven, please don’t eat me!’ are heard. Screams. Gigantic gulp noise and a burp. Silence. Sudden light.]

GIANT’S VOICE: Now where did I leave that Thousand Island dressing? Priests only taste good in dressing-err, with dressing.

JACK: What? Oh god that sounds like a giant!

GIANT: Ah there it is! Well, well what do we have here? Lookie, a dirty little villager from down-under. Come little man, you can be dessert!

JACK: Helllllllllllppp! [Lights off]

SCENE III
[Jack is seen a bit trussed up, and looking scared]

GIANT: Well, we have caramelized nuts and chocolate sauce and one human. Not bad at all. GRrrrrr. I seem to have an itch in my back, just where I can’t reach. Little man, get up there and get rid of it.
[Jack is grossed out]

JACK: So hang on- if I scratch your back, then you will scratch mine?

GIANT: Yes, of course- with a very sharp knife, and a very sharp fork. If you do a good job I might consider not eating you- today. Get up there! Now, to practice my theme song.

JACK: What, you mean fee fi fo fum?

GIANT: Yes; though I’ve been trying to revamp it. You know, move with the times and all

JACK: So what have you come up with so far?

GIANT (in a solemn voice): fee fi fo fum
Yenukku wora girlfriend vanumm.

JACK: Not happening. Where is the ragam, where is the thalam?

GIANT: And what do you know of show biz? You simple little person. Tell me- when you see lights whizzing above you in the sky at night, what do you think they are?

JACK: Asteroids hurtling towards earth and which get burned up on entry into our atmosphere.

GIANT: Wrong! Those lights are the private jet planes of the most powerful heads of state. They come to me to buy Uranium. You see- I am the uranium king. I hold the entire known reserve of the radioactive good stuff in the world. I use it to power everything up here- the refrigerator, which I think you have already met, the motor, the washing machine, everything!

JACK: What’s wrong with electricity?

GIANT: I hate paying bills.

JACK: Oh. So- where exactly does all the nuclear waste go?

GIANT: I dump it

JACK: Where?

GIANT: Below

JACK: But that’s where we live! No wonder everything is radioactive.

GIANT: Who asked you to live down there? I know I didn’t. All right enough talk. Now I want to gloat over all I possess. I want my gold and my music. Oh Harp- Harp! Get in here!
[Enter sullen, pretty Harp] Right. Sing.

HARP: What would you like?

GIANT: Something classical, it always puts me to sleep. Sing! [She starts] Stop! Hen, Oh Hen- get your tail feathers in here! [Enter Hen]

HEN: The name’s Henrietta.

GIANT: Same thing, woman! Now- lay! I want my golden eggs.

HEN: They are MY eggs. Have you no understanding of a mother’s feeling- the beak of my beak, the feather of my feather.

GIANT: I don’t care- Lay!

HEN: Not in front of all these people [looks at the audience]. I’ll be behind that door.

GIANT: Chicken- you are so chicken!

HEN: And you were expecting an ostrich, perhaps?

GIANT: Don’t make me go for another helping of chicken soup. Now Lay! Sing!
[They do the blue Danube alternatively]

I wish I could die (cluck cluck, cluck cluck)
I wish I could fly (tra-la tra-la)
This man is a bore (cluck cluck, cluck cluck)
Makes me feel like a whor [beep] (tra-la tra la)
We’re trapped in this place (cluck-tra la cluck)
How we hate his face (cluck-tra la cluck)
Oh can’t you see how we long to be free-e-e-e-e!
[Giant snores]

HARP: He’s out like a light again.

HEN: The way he eats its no wonder. How are you holding out?

HARP: Not bad, Henrietta, throat’s a bit sore, but I live- I have my dreams of the big lights, the crowds, the applause: Broadway calls, and I Tralala Harp, will answer! Someday, somewhere…

HEN: Yes, well all right, we know, we know- You will be a big star.

HARP: How many eggs tonight, dear?

HEN: 3. There was meant to be 4, but the doc said it was premature. But does he care? No! Sits around the house, abusive and over-weight, and does nothing but eat people and sometimes potter around his nuclear plant. What does he take me for, the bum. (Teary) One of these days, I swear I will just walk out on him.

JACK: Psst! Do you want to walk out now?

BOTH: Who said that?

JACK: Shh! I did. The name’s Jack. I’m going to run away now, and you two could come with me.

BOTH: Where are you off?

JACK: My village, down-under. I live there, with my cow and my mother. Quick, before he wakes up (Snores and grunts heard. They sneak out).

STORYTELLER: Stay away from my house and my car, and I’ll stay away from yours. So, you’re still here, ay? Vetti whaste people. Now what do you think will happen? Jack, who never wanted anything- and didn’t have much to begin with- now, he has golden eggs and a beautiful woman who sings. Has Jack actually started wanting? What do you think? First you tell me- how many of you would like a golden egg? Raise your hands [Goes and gives an egg to audience member who raises his/him hand]. As it is said, “Look for the gold inside the egg, but be careful, for it may get smelly”.
[Lights out. Cheering heard “Up with Jack” “we love Jack” “Jack for President” “Marry me Jack” “Jack is King” from audience. Lights on. Jack, mother, harp and hen]

JACK: You know, its funny. I never used to want anything. Now I’ve realized that having is a pretty good thing. My 22 neighbors want to meet me, some have brought presents. Bob, at the tavern- He gave me two free beers.

MOTHER: That’s wonderful, son.

JACK: And now to give this a shot. (To the hen) Lay!

HEN: Oh no- you didn’t say what I think you just said.

JACK: Ok, lay hen! (No response) You’re supposed to lay golden eggs. So lay!

HEN: I… cant.

JACK: Why you did it just a while back. Is it the altitude? Do you want some privacy?

HEN: No, you twit! I can’t lay any more.

JACK: Why?

HEN: Menopause.

JACK: You’re kidding! You should’ve told me that before we climbed down the beanstalk! How long have you known?

HEN: I refuse to be insulted and degraded this way! As an egg-producer and as a hen, I demand my rights. I want my R-E-S-P-E-C-T. [Jack looks dumbfounded] Respect you idiot, respect!

CROWD: (From audience) You’re damned right, Mrs. H! Give it to him. We support you! Up with Hen! Women united! Boo Jack! Loser! Chauvinist Pig!

HEN: Thankyou, you’re such wonderful people. The beer’s on me: everyone to the tavern! (Cheers heard) I’ll start my own party- No middle-aged egg layer will ever feel slighted again!

MOTHER: I’m coming with you, Henrietta. Jack, I’m ashamed of you. (They Exit)

JACK: (to harp) well I guess it’s just you and me. (Awkward silence) So-

HARP: Listen to me, before you say anything. I know how those stories go- Dashing hero rescues beautiful girl from evil giant, and they live happily ever after, legally. But I must seek my fortune, the bright lights, the applause, the big city calls. You would not understand.
JACK: But-

HARP: Say no more, Jack- I beg of you. Tralala Harp will always remember you. Now farewell, Jack: I’m off to Broadway! [Exits]

JACK: I just wanted to know if she knew how to cook steak. No golden eggs, no free music. What? Download mp3s from Kazaa? Try it on the kind of dial-up connection we have in this place, and then talk to me. (Mutters) I want. (Exits)

STORYTELLER: Stay away from my house and my car, and I’ll stay away from yours. And so Jack, bereft of harp and with no one to make him dinner, he set off for the tavern, where the Hen was holding a political rally. And since she served beer, she had the majority Farmer Smith never could have.

CHORUS1: Look, everyone, its Jack.
[Shouts of boo and hiss]

HEN: No, wait everyone. Jack has nothing. He evidently needs help.

CHORUS2: See a shrink!

HEN: No. He needs our help. Welcome Jack. We only have Kalyani Beer and oorga, I'm afraid.

JACK: That’ll be fine. I don’t know what to say. Nothing was important to me. But now I realize what is important: Human kindness and charity.

CHORUS3: Somebody shut him up! [Somebody takes out a remote control from a pocket, and mutes Jack, who continues to mime talking] That’s better.

CHORUS2: Set top box remote control easy to use?

CHORUS: You get used to it. But- (looks up, gasps)

STORYTELLER: (Screams) giant entry.

GIANT: What’s all the noise down here? I can’t get any sleep!

STORYTELLER: There was a hush as everyone waited for a blood-drenched argument between Jack and the giant. The hen was silent. But wonder of wonders- the giant wasn’t in a bad mood at all.

GIANT: Well, well- You’ve got your own political party, Hen. Good job. [Dead silence] Jack, good for you boy- Carrying off Hen and my Harp is what I would’ve done if I was younger.

CHORUS2: Or smaller! [Sniggers, growl from giant. Then dead silence]

GIANT: (Laughs) Yes, smaller too. Someone give me a beer! [Someone runs, get a ladder goes up with a barrel] Here’s to Hen, may your feathers never fall off! [Cries of “to hen, to hen!”]

STORYTELLER: The giant told good jokes, and soon he was the life of the party.

GIANT: Here’s another one- Yo’ mama’s so dumb, she got hit by a parked car. (Laughter)

MOTHER: I think I don’t quite approve of this low humor. You would not be here if it weren’t for your mama.

GIANT: No harm intended, just a bit of a laugh. What do you do?

MOTHER: I am a botanist.

GIANT: Your beauty is like photosynthesis to the tree of my soul. My nodes are singing, my leaves are curling…

MOTHER: Tee-hee. I like this giant. Quite a decent man. Not like your father- he was all fat and bald. But oh my, this giant is quite a specimen. Majoris Hotness, even.

GIANT: Come climb with me, sweetheart. I have a big garden and I know you have green fingers.

MOTHER: (Coyly) Why, I don’t even know your name.

GIANT: Montague. Named after my grandfather. Call me Monty. And what’s your name, beautiful?

MOTHER: Thelma.

GIANT: Marry me Thelma! (Rolls a giant tire painted yellow and gold towards her}

MOTHER: Oh, Monty!

CHORUS: To Thelma and Monty! [Cheers]

SOMEONE: Tell us your rhyme, Monty.

SOMEONE2: Yeah, you’re giant theme song.

GIANT: Really? You’re all too kind. Here it is in the original.
Fee fi fo fum/I smell the blood of an Englishman/be he alive or be he dead/I’ll grind his bones to make my bread.

SOMEONE: Here’s a thought- why only Englishmen?

SOMEONE2: Yeah- why not English women?

SOMEONE: Oh I get it. We’re not good enough for you, aye, not as good as some first world, London-bridge falling, Madam Tussaud’s waxing, fish and chips eating English capitalist?

GIANT: No, no, no!

SOMEONE: Kill the giant! Down with the giant!

MOTHER: Jack, do something!

JACK: [As if continuing to talk from last time we heard him] …and the love shown by man to fellow man and all his fellow creatures has given me new hope. Human goodness and fellowship is all I want now. I love you all…
[Growls, yells, singing. They fight and slowly fall down. Chorus yells, “we want”. Red Lights.]

STORYTELLER: (Comes in with a shovel) Stay away from my house and my car, and I’ll stay away from yours. I’ve been digging graves. Farmer Smith and his cohorts are dead now because of that free-for-all in the tavern, so is Bob. A flying Tequila bottle killed him. Jack escaped by hiding under the bar counter. The giant was able to get away safely too, and escaped back to his castle with Jack’s mother.

CHORUS IN THE VOICE OF A NEWSREADER: Goodevening and now for the latest news. The giant has converted to vegetarianism after tasting Jack’s mother’s Bissibela bath. The harp has released a new film, which has struck the right chord at the box office. Henrietta the hen is now Hon. mayor of Poor little village. That’s all for the moment. Have a nice day.

STORYTELLER: Visa applications to Rich Big Village are still pending- See that long queue in front of USIS office. Everybody is still unhappy. Everybody, except- Jack.

CHORUS: Jack, what do you want?

JACK: Wants don’t work, friend. I’ve tried them. I want absolutely nothing.
[Nothing song first couple of lines are sung]

CHORUS1: I still have the complete the down payments on my cow. I’ll be working forever. (Starts crying) What do I do?

JACK: Sell the cow to a fast-food company. No more down payments to make.

CHORUS: That is wonderful advice! [Runs off yelling “I'm free, I'm free”]

CHORUS2: Jack, tell us what to do with our lives.

JACK: Nothing, just nothing.

CHORUS3: My wife’s threatening me with a divorce, O great Jack. What do I do?

JACK: Nothing, just nothing. [They all sit cross-legged, meditating around Jack, who’s’ sitting and chewing straw]

CHORUS: Jack, Thankyou, and Thankyou! I sold the cow, and now I am -

OTHER CHORUS MEMBERS SEATED: Nothing, just nothing.

STORYTELLER: (Puts on a pair of devil horns) well, got Farmer Smith and his crew. That’s 4 out of 23 and a half. Not bad at all. Going to have a new barbecue menu down there. (Calls out) O Faustus, bring out the marinade.

CHORUS: What about the half- err, I mean Bob. If not in hell, where is he?

STORYTELLER: Oh he’s in heaven. Red just wasn’t his color, everybody agreed on that one (Sound of thunder). And the moral (clears his throat, takes off horns and continues) the moral of our tale? Be honest regarding what you want, and who you are.
[Enter hen]
HEN: No, the moral of the story is- It is a Fowl world after all. Get it, fowl [clucks, gets chased off by chorus]

CHORUS: So if everyone is going to heaven or hell, where will Jack end up?

STORYTELLER: Who knows? If he doesn’t want anything, there really isn’t much I can do to catch his interest. What a party he’ll be missing. Oh but believe me- I never give up. (Evil laugh). One more thing- plant more beans. Magic or protein rich food, all is good. And you just never know what adventure waits. Maybe you will get [Giant’s voice- “a wife”. Enter Mother-“a garden”. Enter Harp “a movie contract” Chorus groups together and says-
Peace
Blood
Salad
Jack
Peas
We want! [They exit on “we want” slow echoes, menacing]

STORYTELLER: Or you could simply get

JACK: Nothing. Just nothing.

CURTAIN