Rohit discovered a half-smoked cigarette between his fingers. He stared at it for a moment. Shrugging his shoulders, he took a puff and exhaled the smoke slowly. He surveyed the scene around him. Sophia College Lane was deserted, as one would expect at midnight. The dim street lights only somewhat illuminated the sloping lane. The red tobacco stains on the white wall stood out amongst the assortment of foot marks, food particles, dirt and other decorative attempts.
“It’s the time to disco…La La La La…” A hoarse voice sang out behind him. Rohit turned to see a group of college kids sauntering down the lane. Two girls, dressed in loose tops and tight jeans, walked close to each other, giggling. Staggering ahead of them was the guy singing, dressed in a striped shirt with the top three buttons opened.
Open Buttons continued his sorry attempt to sing. “It’s the time to disco….oh oh oh…yea…oh oh oh…” It sounded more like an asthma patient coughing.
Rohit shook his head and took another puff. The group took no notice of him as they continued down, with Open Buttons blaring on, and the girls exchanging hushed comments.
Their voices faded away into the night. As silence descended around him, Rohit remembered his own college days. Those were such fun times. No job or money to worry about. No sense of responsibility. He took another puff and walked down to the large banyan tree. He stood under it, recalling the times he had come there with friends during college.
“Can you give me a cigarette, brother?” A voice called out, interrupting his thoughts.
Rohit swirled around. A short man appeared from nowhere, dressed in torn rags. His hands were gnarled, his fingers out-of-shape. His face was covered with a thick beard. His pants were rolled up to display swollen knees, expanding outwards like inflated balloons. The skin around the knees took a dark purple color and was mutilated in several places.
Rohit grimaced, and took a step back.
“Please brother, just one cigarette.” The beggar pleaded, extending his right palm.
Rohit stared at those knees, which were swollen the size of beach volleyballs. His stomach churned and his legs felt wobbly. He had to look away. He looked up at the man’s imploring eyes. He brought out a packet of cigarettes, and handed one to the beggar, who eagerly put it in his mouth.
Rohit produced a lighter and lit the cigarette. The beggar took a long puff and started to cough loudly. The twisted hands pressed against his chest as he continued to cough. The coughing barely subsided, and he took another puff. And then coughed some more.
Rohit looked at shrunken figure before him. He became acutely aware how lucky he was. Sure, he had lost his job and his girlfriend had dumped him for some larger hunk. But who was he to complain. Life had been kind to him.
The beggar looked into his eyes. “You’re a kind man, brother. Can you spare me some money? I haven’t had a bite to eat for days.”
Looking at the man, Rohit didn’t doubt it for a moment. He took out his wallet to check how much cash he had.
Without warning, a rough hand grabbed Rohit’s neck. The wallet disappeared from his hand. Rohit could barely register what had happened. He found himself being shoved back against the banyan tree. His cigarette fell to the ground.
The beggar’s eyes glared at him, no longer pitiful, rather red with rage. The black beard drew inches from Rohit’s face. A smell of vomit filled his nostrils.
“Feeling sorry for me, were you?” The beggar’s voice turned into a hiss. “Now, I have your money. Remove your watch and give it to me.”
Rohit’s eyes widened in shock. He blinked and looked at the beggar. The contorted hands produced a long kitchen knife, the kind used to chop onions. The tip of the blade pressed against Rohit’s neck. The beggar’s eyes were the color of blood. If he pushed the blade a little deeper, real blood would spurt out.
Rohit felt his pulse rate quicken. His breathing became shallow. He snapped off his watch and handed it over. The red eyes examined the metal strap and silver dial. A smirk appeared on the man’s face, revealing yellow-stained teeth.
“Good boy. Now, what else you got?”
Rohit leaned back against the tree. The knife blade hovered around his adam’s apple. He swallowed a breath of air. His eyes locked onto the knife.
The beggar slapped Rohit’s chest “Give me your belt….and…your glasses...quickly.”
Rohit obeyed, without a word. He had gone from sympathetic bystander to hapless victim. And it had happened in a flash.
The beggar glowered at Rohit, “Stupid, little rich brat.” He shoved his loot into his shirt, and starting laughing. He laughed so hard that it turned into a cough. His back stooped low, as he spat on the ground. Those inflated knees seemed incapable of bending.
The red eyes caught Rohit observing him. “What you looking at, ha?”
Rohit felt the metallic blade against the skin of his neck again. He bit his tongue.
The beggar continued to stare, without blinking. “Your phone…give it…”
Rohit slid out his mobile phone from his jeans pockets. He extended it towards the gnarled hands. All of a sudden, the phone started ringing.
“Don’t cha wish your girlfriend was hot like me…Don’t cha wish your girlfriend was a freak was like me…”
Rohit stared at the phone. He blinked. That wasn’t his ringtone at all. The music grew louder and louder, ringing in his ears. He couldn’t see the beggar. He blinked his eyes again. The music was deafening.
Rohit sat up and rubbed his eyes. His palms were full of sweat. He looked around him. His bed, his desk, his cupboards came into view.
“Don’t cha wish your girlfriend…” Music emanated from his speakers. The digital display on the radio showed the time as 09:02 am.
“Rohit,” His mother’s voice yelled from somewhere. “Wake up and turn that alarm off.”
*****
Let's Play
Water, water and water everywhere. What a spoilsport the monsoon was. The lawn setup for Andy’s birthday party was filled with ankle-deep water. Krish arrived late, dropped off by his mother. He joined his glum-faced fifth-grade classmates, huddled under the doorway where there was cover from the downpour.
Someone tapped him on the shoulder. “Hi Krish.” It was Andy, dressed in a flowing black cape, with a tall hat adorning his head that read ‘Birthday Boy’.
“Happy birthday.” Krish smiled, and hugged his friend.
“Thanks,” Andy replied. “Look at this stupid rain. It’s spoiling the day.”
Krish cast his eyes across the lawn. On one end, a long table was covered with a cloth, which partially concealed some cookies, sandwiches, and cake. Balloons fluttered in the wind, tied to the side of the table. Several bottles of Coke and Sprite lay in a bucket of ice. A cardboard box had triangular, pointy party hats. On a higher table lay two square, black speakers which emanated music, barely audible about the din of the rain crashing down.
“Let’s go home.” Raj, another classmate, said.
“It’s so cold. The lawn is mucky. I wanna go back.” Someone else chimed in.
“We can’t even play Super Mario.” Also on the lawn, was a projector screen and a Nintendo Wii console setup with multiple controllers.
Krish looked across the lawn again. One of the balloons had come loose and floated on the accumulated rain water. An idea struck him. “Come with me.” He grabbed Andy’s hand and scurried onto the lawn.
“Krish, where you going…leave my hand…” Andy protested. Their legs splashed the cold rain water, which seeped into their shoes and socks.
Krish emptied the sodas and ice from the bucket. “Help me lift the bucket.”
Andy scowled. “I’m getting wet...” Reluctantly, he followed Krish’s lead. They each held one side of the bucket and hauled it onto the higher table, in between the speakers, with the open top facing forward.
Krish went to the centre of the lawn, grabbed the stray yellow balloon and threw it to Andy. Andy caught it, and without thinking, threw it back. Krish took it and ran towards the table. He leapt into the air and hurled the balloon into the empty bucket.
“Gooooalll.” Krish yelled and jumped up and down. He ran towards Andy with his hand raised above his hand. Andy reacted and high-fived his buddy.
“Your turn.” Krish said. “Pick me up so I can get the balloon back.”
Andy grabbed his friend’s waist and lifted. Krish stretched his arms forward and fetched the balloon from the bucket. He ran towards the center of the lawn, and threw it to Andy, who held the balloon, and stood there, looking at it.
“C’mon, score a goal.” Krish urged. Andy ran towards the table, jumped up and threw the balloon into the bucket.
“Goaaall…” Krish screamed.
“Yessss….” Andy beamed and punched the air. Krish ran to him and hugged him. They retrieved the balloon once again.
Two more classmates marched onto the lawn and joined in. Then, four more. And five more. Within minutes, the whole class was splashing about in the mucky rain water, passing around a balloon and taking turns throwing it into a bucket. Loud laughter echoed through the lawn. Their shoes turned brown from the mud. Their bodies were drenched in the rain. Their faces were covered with smiles.
“Pass it to me.”
“It’s my turn next.”
“Goaaaall…”
They gathered around the latest goal scorer and hoisted him onto their shoulders. He raised his hands and shouted with delight.
Soon, one of them obtained a stool so that retrieving the balloon would be easier. They elected captains and divided themselves into teams. They passed the balloon to their teammates while the other team tried to catch it along the way.
“Goooaaaal…3-2….we’re winning…”Andy let out a roar.
Krish grinned from ear to ear. “How’s your birthday now? Having fun?”
“Best birthday ever…”
*****
“Every child is born an artist. The problem is remaining an artist when they grow up.”
- Pablo Picasso
Ah, the joys of being a child. Playing a game. Having fun. The play instinct, the instinct to have fun, is the primal driving energy in any human being. It’s the part inside us that makes us come alive. Children are great at it. They are constantly playing, having a blast, laughing. But, adults forget how to do this. They lose the ability to let go and just have fun without any purpose or reason.
This play instinct stokes our imagination. The heart of all creativity is imagination at play. The creative mind plays with objects around it and thereby creates something new.
How often do you let yourself play? How often do you have fun?
There is a child inside all of us. Block some time every week to take your inner child on a play date. During this time, switch off your phone, don’t read the latest news or check your bank account, don’t check your mails or messages or Facebook updates or tweets. Disconnect from the world.
Do anything you feel is fun. Explore anything that intrigues you. Take a walk on the beach; go for a swim; photograph a sunset; paint a mountain scenery; cook an exotic recipe; sing along to your favorite music, even if it’s corny music that no one else respects; dance barefoot to drum beats; make a collage of old photos; sketch a portrait; write a story; go to a temple or church and chant hymns; go on a long drive with no destination. Do whatever your heart tells you to do. There are no rules. Just let yourself have fun.
By doing so, you will fuel your creative imagination and awaken your inner artist-child. Life possibilities will open up for you. Follow your bliss and doors will open where previously there were only walls. Do this regularly and you will experience magic.
Someone tapped him on the shoulder. “Hi Krish.” It was Andy, dressed in a flowing black cape, with a tall hat adorning his head that read ‘Birthday Boy’.
“Happy birthday.” Krish smiled, and hugged his friend.
“Thanks,” Andy replied. “Look at this stupid rain. It’s spoiling the day.”
Krish cast his eyes across the lawn. On one end, a long table was covered with a cloth, which partially concealed some cookies, sandwiches, and cake. Balloons fluttered in the wind, tied to the side of the table. Several bottles of Coke and Sprite lay in a bucket of ice. A cardboard box had triangular, pointy party hats. On a higher table lay two square, black speakers which emanated music, barely audible about the din of the rain crashing down.
“Let’s go home.” Raj, another classmate, said.
“It’s so cold. The lawn is mucky. I wanna go back.” Someone else chimed in.
“We can’t even play Super Mario.” Also on the lawn, was a projector screen and a Nintendo Wii console setup with multiple controllers.
Krish looked across the lawn again. One of the balloons had come loose and floated on the accumulated rain water. An idea struck him. “Come with me.” He grabbed Andy’s hand and scurried onto the lawn.
“Krish, where you going…leave my hand…” Andy protested. Their legs splashed the cold rain water, which seeped into their shoes and socks.
Krish emptied the sodas and ice from the bucket. “Help me lift the bucket.”
Andy scowled. “I’m getting wet...” Reluctantly, he followed Krish’s lead. They each held one side of the bucket and hauled it onto the higher table, in between the speakers, with the open top facing forward.
Krish went to the centre of the lawn, grabbed the stray yellow balloon and threw it to Andy. Andy caught it, and without thinking, threw it back. Krish took it and ran towards the table. He leapt into the air and hurled the balloon into the empty bucket.
“Gooooalll.” Krish yelled and jumped up and down. He ran towards Andy with his hand raised above his hand. Andy reacted and high-fived his buddy.
“Your turn.” Krish said. “Pick me up so I can get the balloon back.”
Andy grabbed his friend’s waist and lifted. Krish stretched his arms forward and fetched the balloon from the bucket. He ran towards the center of the lawn, and threw it to Andy, who held the balloon, and stood there, looking at it.
“C’mon, score a goal.” Krish urged. Andy ran towards the table, jumped up and threw the balloon into the bucket.
“Goaaall…” Krish screamed.
“Yessss….” Andy beamed and punched the air. Krish ran to him and hugged him. They retrieved the balloon once again.
Two more classmates marched onto the lawn and joined in. Then, four more. And five more. Within minutes, the whole class was splashing about in the mucky rain water, passing around a balloon and taking turns throwing it into a bucket. Loud laughter echoed through the lawn. Their shoes turned brown from the mud. Their bodies were drenched in the rain. Their faces were covered with smiles.
“Pass it to me.”
“It’s my turn next.”
“Goaaaall…”
They gathered around the latest goal scorer and hoisted him onto their shoulders. He raised his hands and shouted with delight.
Soon, one of them obtained a stool so that retrieving the balloon would be easier. They elected captains and divided themselves into teams. They passed the balloon to their teammates while the other team tried to catch it along the way.
“Goooaaaal…3-2….we’re winning…”Andy let out a roar.
Krish grinned from ear to ear. “How’s your birthday now? Having fun?”
“Best birthday ever…”
*****
“Every child is born an artist. The problem is remaining an artist when they grow up.”
- Pablo Picasso
Ah, the joys of being a child. Playing a game. Having fun. The play instinct, the instinct to have fun, is the primal driving energy in any human being. It’s the part inside us that makes us come alive. Children are great at it. They are constantly playing, having a blast, laughing. But, adults forget how to do this. They lose the ability to let go and just have fun without any purpose or reason.
This play instinct stokes our imagination. The heart of all creativity is imagination at play. The creative mind plays with objects around it and thereby creates something new.
How often do you let yourself play? How often do you have fun?
There is a child inside all of us. Block some time every week to take your inner child on a play date. During this time, switch off your phone, don’t read the latest news or check your bank account, don’t check your mails or messages or Facebook updates or tweets. Disconnect from the world.
Do anything you feel is fun. Explore anything that intrigues you. Take a walk on the beach; go for a swim; photograph a sunset; paint a mountain scenery; cook an exotic recipe; sing along to your favorite music, even if it’s corny music that no one else respects; dance barefoot to drum beats; make a collage of old photos; sketch a portrait; write a story; go to a temple or church and chant hymns; go on a long drive with no destination. Do whatever your heart tells you to do. There are no rules. Just let yourself have fun.
By doing so, you will fuel your creative imagination and awaken your inner artist-child. Life possibilities will open up for you. Follow your bliss and doors will open where previously there were only walls. Do this regularly and you will experience magic.
Favorite Quotations
Below is a listed of some of my favorite quotations, sayings, phrases, lines from songs, etc that I have heard over the years. This list is not ordered and not exhaustive. It’ll continue to expand over time.
• To be happy, make others happy
• Joyfully participate in the sorrows of the world
• Be kind as everyone is fighting a tough battle
• Laughter is the key that unlocks the door to happiness
• Follow your bliss and doors will open where there were just walls
• Leap and the net will appear
• Become who you are
• And this too shall pass
• You may say I'm a dreamer, but I'm not the only one. I hope someday you'll join us and the world can live as one.
• If you can meet triumph and disaster and treat both those impostors just the same
• There is nothing good or bad, but thinking makes it so.
• The nature of the rain is the same and yet it produces thorns in the marshes and flowers in the gardens
• The soul inside me no man can degrade
• If a problem can be solved, why worry about it? If a problem can't be solved, why worry about it?
• Fear is a path to the dark side of the force
• I’m grateful for all my troubles as they have made me strong and more able to deal with those that are still to come
• You can't fail if you never stop trying
• Dream as if you'll live forever. Live as if you'll die tomorrow.
• Victory belongs to the most persevering.
• It’s not the situation that matters it’s how you react to the situation
• Courage is not the absence of fear, but the ability to move beyond it
• The darkest hour of night comes just before dawn
• We are all in the gutter, the only difference is that some of us are looking at the stars
• Life is not about waiting for the storm to pass, its about dancing in the rain
• Success is how high you bounce after you hit the bottom
• Failure is nothing but the prequel to success
• In the depth of winter, I finally learned that within me there lay an invincible summer.
• Never under-estimate the power of positive thinking
• Live out of your imagination, not your history
• Dream on Till your dream comes true
• Shoot for the moon. Even if you miss, you'll land among the stars.
• I ain’t gonna be just a face in the crowd, your gonna hear my voice when I shout it loud
• I get knocked down, but I get up again; your never gonna keep me down
• Attitude is Everything
• Dream big but dream with your eyes open
• Life's simple: make choices, don't look back
• Life is a journey, not a destination. The pleasure is always in the chase. The hunt is sweeter than the kill
• Where there was dark, now there's light; Where there was pain now there's joy; Where there was weakness I found my strength
• A friend is one who knows all about you, but still likes you
• 2 mice fell in a bucket of cream. First mouse gave up and drowned. Second mouse fought hard, turned butter to cream and got out
• A new day will dawn for those who stand long and the forest will echo with laughter
• The race is long and in the end it is only with yourself
• To be happy, make others happy
• Joyfully participate in the sorrows of the world
• Be kind as everyone is fighting a tough battle
• Laughter is the key that unlocks the door to happiness
• Follow your bliss and doors will open where there were just walls
• Leap and the net will appear
• Become who you are
• And this too shall pass
• You may say I'm a dreamer, but I'm not the only one. I hope someday you'll join us and the world can live as one.
• If you can meet triumph and disaster and treat both those impostors just the same
• There is nothing good or bad, but thinking makes it so.
• The nature of the rain is the same and yet it produces thorns in the marshes and flowers in the gardens
• The soul inside me no man can degrade
• If a problem can be solved, why worry about it? If a problem can't be solved, why worry about it?
• Fear is a path to the dark side of the force
• I’m grateful for all my troubles as they have made me strong and more able to deal with those that are still to come
• You can't fail if you never stop trying
• Dream as if you'll live forever. Live as if you'll die tomorrow.
• Victory belongs to the most persevering.
• It’s not the situation that matters it’s how you react to the situation
• Courage is not the absence of fear, but the ability to move beyond it
• The darkest hour of night comes just before dawn
• We are all in the gutter, the only difference is that some of us are looking at the stars
• Life is not about waiting for the storm to pass, its about dancing in the rain
• Success is how high you bounce after you hit the bottom
• Failure is nothing but the prequel to success
• In the depth of winter, I finally learned that within me there lay an invincible summer.
• Never under-estimate the power of positive thinking
• Live out of your imagination, not your history
• Dream on Till your dream comes true
• Shoot for the moon. Even if you miss, you'll land among the stars.
• I ain’t gonna be just a face in the crowd, your gonna hear my voice when I shout it loud
• I get knocked down, but I get up again; your never gonna keep me down
• Attitude is Everything
• Dream big but dream with your eyes open
• Life's simple: make choices, don't look back
• Life is a journey, not a destination. The pleasure is always in the chase. The hunt is sweeter than the kill
• Where there was dark, now there's light; Where there was pain now there's joy; Where there was weakness I found my strength
• A friend is one who knows all about you, but still likes you
• 2 mice fell in a bucket of cream. First mouse gave up and drowned. Second mouse fought hard, turned butter to cream and got out
• A new day will dawn for those who stand long and the forest will echo with laughter
• The race is long and in the end it is only with yourself
• We may lose or we may win but we will never be here again.
The Hermit
Suraj stopped to catch his breath. With the palm of his hand, he wiped the perspiration from his forehead. He brought out a water bottle from his backpack and took a gulp.
He had reached the end of the trail. The forest loomed all around him, dense with trees, bushes, vegetation of all shapes and sizes. The brown dirt on the ground below seeped into his shoes. His gaze swept across the forest, searching for a settlement for huts. One name echoed inside his mind. Zubin.
Zubin. The warrior whose name was taken by the locals in whispers, with no small measure of respect. The stories of his feats were folklore. Suraj had to find Zubin. He had to be trained by the master swordsman. He had traveled far and wide in his hunt, with no luck yet.
He sat down near the trunk of a large oak tree whose branches spread everywhere. He closed his eyes. The images of the rape were etched permanently in his memory. Suraj was eighteen at the time. His sister, Sapna, was twenty one, and had a fully developed body. It was just before midnight. They had gone to buy light bulbs for the home. Thiers was s safe neighborhood. Or so they had believed.
Four men jumped them from behind. Street thugs with unshaven faces and shabby clothes. Suraj remembered those faces well. They overpowered him easily with few hard punches. One of them held him down to the floor. He was almost unconscious. If only he had been fully unconscious. Because the scene that he witnessed after that left a scar that years of therapy couldn’t begin to heal.
Sapna’s high pitched screams pierced his ears. They tore her shirt, yanked off her jeans, ripped open her underwear. All the while, Suraj lay helpless, pinned to the ground, tasting blood in his mouth. One by one, they violated her on the ground. Penetrating her delicate body again and again. After the first one, her screams turned to whimpers and then died entirely. Suraj could still see the look on his sister’s face. Emptiness. Her eyes stared into space, sightless. Her complexion drained of all its color. She looked like a ghost.
Suraj stood up and shuddered. He tore off a nearby leaf and crumpled it inside his fist. His breathing became strained. Such visions of that fateful night haunted him. He had been too weak to defend his sister’s honor.
From that day, he had sworn to learn to defend himself against the evil that he knew existed in the world around him. He worked out at the gym with fanatic regularity. He made his body lean and muscular. He learnt Karate, Judo and Taekwondo. He participated in kick-boxing competitions, and frequently won. But still, Suraj was not satisfied.
He had heard some of his senior martial arts instructors mention the name Zubin. They had heard second-hand stories. Zubin was a warrior with no equal. Once, he had faced fifty opponents at a time and had not been defeated. During his travels to Japan, he had battled a reputed samurai fighter. Zubin had disarmed the samurai before he could even draw his sword.
Suraj knew instantly that he had to seek out this mysterious Zubin. Only a warrior of such caliber could train him adequately. Suraj would settle for nothing less.
Once committed to this single-minded goal, Suraj left no stone unturned. He asked every instructor, every fighter he knew about Zubin. One led him to another. His search led him to that forest where it was believed that Zubin lived as a hermit, in a small hut by himself.
Suraj had asked some locals about the location of Zubin’s hut. Their directions were vague and conflicting. After getting lost several times, Suraj had arrived at that point.
He wore his backpack on his shoulders and walked on. He checked his watch. It was noon. He had trekked since seven in the morning. He looked around him. Suddenly, his pulse quickened.
Up ahead to the left, he caught sight of a group of huts. He scrambled towards them. There were eight huts arranged in a neat grid. Each had stone walls and a slanting roof with square tiles. Suraj saw an old woman peering out from a window. He asked her if she knew where a warrior named Zubin lived. She stared at him for a long moment and then pointed towards a thatched roof in the distance, barely visible between the trees. Before he could thank her, she had slammed the window shut and disappeared from view.
Suraj jogged to the hut she had indicated. He went to the door. It was an antique wooden door, painted dull grey. There was no doorbell or handle. He rapped his knuckles on the door. No answer. Without warning, he felt the sting of a cold blade press against his shoulder.
Suraj considered pushing the blade away and spinning around, as he had learnt to in his martial arts training. But he thought better off it.
A hoarse voice behind him demanded, “Your business?”
“I have come to talk to the warrior, Zubin. I want to train with him.”
A brief pause, before the voice responded. “I don’t teach. Go away.” The blade lowered and the man stepped past Suraj into the hut and closed the door. This movement happened so fast that Suraj didn’t catch a look at him.
Suraj knocked again.
“Go away I said.” The voice commanded.
“If I could only talk to you for a minute…” Suraj began.
The door cracked open an inch. Two unblinking white eyes bore into Suraj. “Don’t disturb me again.” The door slammed shut.
Suraj stepped back. He knew he had found the right man, the one teacher who might make him into a real warrior. He had spent too much energy in his search to go back. Filled with a sense of anticipation, Suraj decided to sit outside the hut, ten feet from the door, and wait. He would wait until Zubin accepted him as a student. Or until he died outside that hut.
An hour passed. Two hours. Six hours. His body became stiff. He could no longer feel his arms or legs. Night fell in the forest. Suraj remained unmoved. A fit of shivering came and went. He grew drowsy. Sometime in the night, his head fell back and he toppled over. He awakened and painfully forced himself back into sitting position.
Morning came and he became hungry and thirsty, but the feeling passed. Memories from the rape flashed in his head. Sapna’s lifeless face crystallized before his mind’s eye. He sat up straight, his resolve turned to steel. Night came again. His tongue ran across parched lips in search of water or even saliva.
The second morning, Suraj wasn’t sure he could move if he wanted too. Time ceased to have meaning. He drifted in and out of awareness.
A voice echoed from somewhere above. “Alright, you win.”
The voice grew louder. “Get up. I don’t want your corpse creating a stink.”
Suraj tried to rise, but his limbs wouldn’t respond. A bucket of water was emptied upon him. He couldn’t tell if the water was hot or cold. He looked up to see the expressionless face of Zubin. The cheeks were hollow, the skin wrinkled. A black scar smeared across the forehead. A thick heap of snow-white hair covered his head. It was the face of a man who had been everywhere and experienced everything.
Two powerful arms lifted Suraj and ushered him inside the hut. It was a dark little room. One small cot in the corner. A pair of low stools constituted the only other furniture.
“Sit there.” Zubin pointed towards the wooden fireplace. Over the fire, hung a large iron cooking pot. Inside it was a steaming vegetable soup.
“Take some.” Zubin indicated some bowls lying on the floor. Suraj slowly ingested each spoonful of soup as though he had never eaten before. When he finished, Zubin told him to wash the bowls in the sink.
The old warrior studied Suraj. “I may agree to teach you. We’ll see…” He showed Suraj the supply of grains and vegetables. He pointed to the toilet. He told Suraj that he was to clean the toilet, sweep the floors, make the food, wash the clothes and serve Zubin in every which way. Suraj nodded.
Over the next few days, Suraj did his best to please the quiet warrior. Zubin didn’t communicate much, apart from an occasional grunt when he tasted his soup, which Suraj prepared. Without any comment or complaint, Suraj performed all the chores asked of him. He slept on the cold floor of the hut every night.
Two weeks passed and Zubin said nothing about training him. Suraj grew impatient. He addressed the warrior one day after his meal. “Master Zubin…”
“Not Master Zubin. Just Zubin.”
Suraj nodded. “I’ve done my best with my duties. I hope they have been to your satisfaction.”
Zubin grunted.
“I need to know whether I have earned the right to train with you.”
Zubin made no attempt to reply. His gaze penetrated Suraj in a way that made the hair on his skin stand up.
Suraj cleared his throat. “I cannot delay so much. I have to learn to fight.”
Zubin continued to glare at him.
Suraj pleaded with his eyes. “You promised to teach...”
“I promised nothing.” Zubin retorted. He stormed out of the hut.
Suraj clenched his fist. What a crazed manic. Was this guy really a master warrior? Or were all those stories fiction? Was he wasting his time there?
Suraj decided to stay the night and re-think the situation in the morning. That night, Suraj was awakened with a blow to his head. He rubbed his head, and looked up to see Zubin standing over him, holding a wooden staff. The man’s face was blank, with no trace of anger or hostility. He turned calmly and returned to his cot.
Suraj stared after him. So Zubin was insane then. Suraj considered gathering his things and leaving. But it was already night. He would think more clearly in the morning.
As soon as Suraj drifted off, whack. Pain in his midriff. He woke in panic, looking around. He glimpsed Zubin’s back as the old man trailed off.
Suraj slipped back into an uneasy sleep. Just before dawn, he received another thumping strike and a new bruise, this time on his knees. Suraj stood up and stretched out. He took some cold water and numbed his aching body. He walked around the forest.
The sun ascended above the trees, illuminating the sky. Suraj looked at the bright yellow orb and thought of his sister and of her violent attackers. He decided to stay at Zubin’s hut.
That day and every day for the next two weeks, each time Suraj was distracted or preoccupied with some thought, Zubin would smack him. The strikes were quick and silent as the wind. Suraj tried to defend himself but the old man was gone before he could even react. Pain became such a constant for Suraj that he forgot what it felt like to be free of it.
Frequently, Suraj wanted to end the abuse. What the hell was going on? He was there to train to fight. Not to be beaten like a stray dog. He reminded himself that he was not a prisoner. He could pack up and walk out anytime.
But something kept him there. Call it a hunch. Maybe this was a kind of initiation ritual that all potential students had to go through. Maybe it was a test of sincerity. Or maybe the man was stark, raving mad.
Day and night, the blows rained down. Ten, twenty, even thirty every day. Meanwhile, Suraj continued with his chores and slept with his eyes half open. He never knew when or where the next strike would come. He tried to hit back but the old warrior was too quick for him.
Two nights later, Suraj jerked awake without knowing why. He looked around and didn’t see a thing. An idea occurred to him.
Suraj stood up and tip-toed to Zubin’s cot, feeling his way through the darkness. It was time to turn the tables. He stood over the cot and silenced his breathing. He lifted his hands, grinning at the anticipated surprise he was about to cause. With full force he brought both his hands down.
He struck the meshed frame of an empty cot. He cursed under his breath. Where was Zubin?
His hair stood on the back of his neck. He started to swing around but it was too late. The tip of the wooden staff landed heavily on his buttocks. Zubin stood there, his eyes glaring down at him. Suraj cringed and contorted his face. He massaged his behind and crawled back to his spot on the floor.
Suraj didn’t sleep the rest of the night. Even in daylight, he felt a constant state of nervous alertness, expecting a blow at any moment.
Then it happened. One evening, Suraj was stirring the soup in the cooking pot. Without thinking or even realizing it, his arm abruptly lifted the steel lid of the pot above his head. A metallic clang sounded out as the wooden staff came whipping down on the lid. Suraj was himself surprised at his action. He spun around to see a trace of a smile on Zubin’s lips.
Then it happened again. And again. Whenever Zubin came to strike him, Suraj would find himself raising an object or his arm to fend off the blow or ducking out of the way. He never thought about it. It just happened.
Suraj woke up one day before dawn and swiftly rolled over to one side. The staff came down on the floor at the exact spot where he lay a moment ago. Suraj jumped to his feet. His eyes met those of the master.
A broad smile spread across Zubin’s face.
Emboldened, Suraj asked. “Does this mean my training can begin?”
“No,” Zubin replied. “Your training is over.”
Only then did Suraj grasp the scope of the lesson that he had been given. All those attacks, all the time the master had been teaching him to move instinctively, to react without thinking, at speeds that the mind cannot process, to stay alert at all times and not get lost in random thoughts. There was method behind Zubin’s apparent madness.
Suraj smiled. He gathered his belongings and prepared to leave. He stood outside the hut and bowed down on his knees before the master, in a gesture of gratitude. Zubin brought his staff down and planted one final, delicate blow on Suraj’s shoulder blades. Without a word, the master turned and disappeared inside his hut.
He had reached the end of the trail. The forest loomed all around him, dense with trees, bushes, vegetation of all shapes and sizes. The brown dirt on the ground below seeped into his shoes. His gaze swept across the forest, searching for a settlement for huts. One name echoed inside his mind. Zubin.
Zubin. The warrior whose name was taken by the locals in whispers, with no small measure of respect. The stories of his feats were folklore. Suraj had to find Zubin. He had to be trained by the master swordsman. He had traveled far and wide in his hunt, with no luck yet.
He sat down near the trunk of a large oak tree whose branches spread everywhere. He closed his eyes. The images of the rape were etched permanently in his memory. Suraj was eighteen at the time. His sister, Sapna, was twenty one, and had a fully developed body. It was just before midnight. They had gone to buy light bulbs for the home. Thiers was s safe neighborhood. Or so they had believed.
Four men jumped them from behind. Street thugs with unshaven faces and shabby clothes. Suraj remembered those faces well. They overpowered him easily with few hard punches. One of them held him down to the floor. He was almost unconscious. If only he had been fully unconscious. Because the scene that he witnessed after that left a scar that years of therapy couldn’t begin to heal.
Sapna’s high pitched screams pierced his ears. They tore her shirt, yanked off her jeans, ripped open her underwear. All the while, Suraj lay helpless, pinned to the ground, tasting blood in his mouth. One by one, they violated her on the ground. Penetrating her delicate body again and again. After the first one, her screams turned to whimpers and then died entirely. Suraj could still see the look on his sister’s face. Emptiness. Her eyes stared into space, sightless. Her complexion drained of all its color. She looked like a ghost.
Suraj stood up and shuddered. He tore off a nearby leaf and crumpled it inside his fist. His breathing became strained. Such visions of that fateful night haunted him. He had been too weak to defend his sister’s honor.
From that day, he had sworn to learn to defend himself against the evil that he knew existed in the world around him. He worked out at the gym with fanatic regularity. He made his body lean and muscular. He learnt Karate, Judo and Taekwondo. He participated in kick-boxing competitions, and frequently won. But still, Suraj was not satisfied.
He had heard some of his senior martial arts instructors mention the name Zubin. They had heard second-hand stories. Zubin was a warrior with no equal. Once, he had faced fifty opponents at a time and had not been defeated. During his travels to Japan, he had battled a reputed samurai fighter. Zubin had disarmed the samurai before he could even draw his sword.
Suraj knew instantly that he had to seek out this mysterious Zubin. Only a warrior of such caliber could train him adequately. Suraj would settle for nothing less.
Once committed to this single-minded goal, Suraj left no stone unturned. He asked every instructor, every fighter he knew about Zubin. One led him to another. His search led him to that forest where it was believed that Zubin lived as a hermit, in a small hut by himself.
Suraj had asked some locals about the location of Zubin’s hut. Their directions were vague and conflicting. After getting lost several times, Suraj had arrived at that point.
He wore his backpack on his shoulders and walked on. He checked his watch. It was noon. He had trekked since seven in the morning. He looked around him. Suddenly, his pulse quickened.
Up ahead to the left, he caught sight of a group of huts. He scrambled towards them. There were eight huts arranged in a neat grid. Each had stone walls and a slanting roof with square tiles. Suraj saw an old woman peering out from a window. He asked her if she knew where a warrior named Zubin lived. She stared at him for a long moment and then pointed towards a thatched roof in the distance, barely visible between the trees. Before he could thank her, she had slammed the window shut and disappeared from view.
Suraj jogged to the hut she had indicated. He went to the door. It was an antique wooden door, painted dull grey. There was no doorbell or handle. He rapped his knuckles on the door. No answer. Without warning, he felt the sting of a cold blade press against his shoulder.
Suraj considered pushing the blade away and spinning around, as he had learnt to in his martial arts training. But he thought better off it.
A hoarse voice behind him demanded, “Your business?”
“I have come to talk to the warrior, Zubin. I want to train with him.”
A brief pause, before the voice responded. “I don’t teach. Go away.” The blade lowered and the man stepped past Suraj into the hut and closed the door. This movement happened so fast that Suraj didn’t catch a look at him.
Suraj knocked again.
“Go away I said.” The voice commanded.
“If I could only talk to you for a minute…” Suraj began.
The door cracked open an inch. Two unblinking white eyes bore into Suraj. “Don’t disturb me again.” The door slammed shut.
Suraj stepped back. He knew he had found the right man, the one teacher who might make him into a real warrior. He had spent too much energy in his search to go back. Filled with a sense of anticipation, Suraj decided to sit outside the hut, ten feet from the door, and wait. He would wait until Zubin accepted him as a student. Or until he died outside that hut.
An hour passed. Two hours. Six hours. His body became stiff. He could no longer feel his arms or legs. Night fell in the forest. Suraj remained unmoved. A fit of shivering came and went. He grew drowsy. Sometime in the night, his head fell back and he toppled over. He awakened and painfully forced himself back into sitting position.
Morning came and he became hungry and thirsty, but the feeling passed. Memories from the rape flashed in his head. Sapna’s lifeless face crystallized before his mind’s eye. He sat up straight, his resolve turned to steel. Night came again. His tongue ran across parched lips in search of water or even saliva.
The second morning, Suraj wasn’t sure he could move if he wanted too. Time ceased to have meaning. He drifted in and out of awareness.
A voice echoed from somewhere above. “Alright, you win.”
The voice grew louder. “Get up. I don’t want your corpse creating a stink.”
Suraj tried to rise, but his limbs wouldn’t respond. A bucket of water was emptied upon him. He couldn’t tell if the water was hot or cold. He looked up to see the expressionless face of Zubin. The cheeks were hollow, the skin wrinkled. A black scar smeared across the forehead. A thick heap of snow-white hair covered his head. It was the face of a man who had been everywhere and experienced everything.
Two powerful arms lifted Suraj and ushered him inside the hut. It was a dark little room. One small cot in the corner. A pair of low stools constituted the only other furniture.
“Sit there.” Zubin pointed towards the wooden fireplace. Over the fire, hung a large iron cooking pot. Inside it was a steaming vegetable soup.
“Take some.” Zubin indicated some bowls lying on the floor. Suraj slowly ingested each spoonful of soup as though he had never eaten before. When he finished, Zubin told him to wash the bowls in the sink.
The old warrior studied Suraj. “I may agree to teach you. We’ll see…” He showed Suraj the supply of grains and vegetables. He pointed to the toilet. He told Suraj that he was to clean the toilet, sweep the floors, make the food, wash the clothes and serve Zubin in every which way. Suraj nodded.
Over the next few days, Suraj did his best to please the quiet warrior. Zubin didn’t communicate much, apart from an occasional grunt when he tasted his soup, which Suraj prepared. Without any comment or complaint, Suraj performed all the chores asked of him. He slept on the cold floor of the hut every night.
Two weeks passed and Zubin said nothing about training him. Suraj grew impatient. He addressed the warrior one day after his meal. “Master Zubin…”
“Not Master Zubin. Just Zubin.”
Suraj nodded. “I’ve done my best with my duties. I hope they have been to your satisfaction.”
Zubin grunted.
“I need to know whether I have earned the right to train with you.”
Zubin made no attempt to reply. His gaze penetrated Suraj in a way that made the hair on his skin stand up.
Suraj cleared his throat. “I cannot delay so much. I have to learn to fight.”
Zubin continued to glare at him.
Suraj pleaded with his eyes. “You promised to teach...”
“I promised nothing.” Zubin retorted. He stormed out of the hut.
Suraj clenched his fist. What a crazed manic. Was this guy really a master warrior? Or were all those stories fiction? Was he wasting his time there?
Suraj decided to stay the night and re-think the situation in the morning. That night, Suraj was awakened with a blow to his head. He rubbed his head, and looked up to see Zubin standing over him, holding a wooden staff. The man’s face was blank, with no trace of anger or hostility. He turned calmly and returned to his cot.
Suraj stared after him. So Zubin was insane then. Suraj considered gathering his things and leaving. But it was already night. He would think more clearly in the morning.
As soon as Suraj drifted off, whack. Pain in his midriff. He woke in panic, looking around. He glimpsed Zubin’s back as the old man trailed off.
Suraj slipped back into an uneasy sleep. Just before dawn, he received another thumping strike and a new bruise, this time on his knees. Suraj stood up and stretched out. He took some cold water and numbed his aching body. He walked around the forest.
The sun ascended above the trees, illuminating the sky. Suraj looked at the bright yellow orb and thought of his sister and of her violent attackers. He decided to stay at Zubin’s hut.
That day and every day for the next two weeks, each time Suraj was distracted or preoccupied with some thought, Zubin would smack him. The strikes were quick and silent as the wind. Suraj tried to defend himself but the old man was gone before he could even react. Pain became such a constant for Suraj that he forgot what it felt like to be free of it.
Frequently, Suraj wanted to end the abuse. What the hell was going on? He was there to train to fight. Not to be beaten like a stray dog. He reminded himself that he was not a prisoner. He could pack up and walk out anytime.
But something kept him there. Call it a hunch. Maybe this was a kind of initiation ritual that all potential students had to go through. Maybe it was a test of sincerity. Or maybe the man was stark, raving mad.
Day and night, the blows rained down. Ten, twenty, even thirty every day. Meanwhile, Suraj continued with his chores and slept with his eyes half open. He never knew when or where the next strike would come. He tried to hit back but the old warrior was too quick for him.
Two nights later, Suraj jerked awake without knowing why. He looked around and didn’t see a thing. An idea occurred to him.
Suraj stood up and tip-toed to Zubin’s cot, feeling his way through the darkness. It was time to turn the tables. He stood over the cot and silenced his breathing. He lifted his hands, grinning at the anticipated surprise he was about to cause. With full force he brought both his hands down.
He struck the meshed frame of an empty cot. He cursed under his breath. Where was Zubin?
His hair stood on the back of his neck. He started to swing around but it was too late. The tip of the wooden staff landed heavily on his buttocks. Zubin stood there, his eyes glaring down at him. Suraj cringed and contorted his face. He massaged his behind and crawled back to his spot on the floor.
Suraj didn’t sleep the rest of the night. Even in daylight, he felt a constant state of nervous alertness, expecting a blow at any moment.
Then it happened. One evening, Suraj was stirring the soup in the cooking pot. Without thinking or even realizing it, his arm abruptly lifted the steel lid of the pot above his head. A metallic clang sounded out as the wooden staff came whipping down on the lid. Suraj was himself surprised at his action. He spun around to see a trace of a smile on Zubin’s lips.
Then it happened again. And again. Whenever Zubin came to strike him, Suraj would find himself raising an object or his arm to fend off the blow or ducking out of the way. He never thought about it. It just happened.
Suraj woke up one day before dawn and swiftly rolled over to one side. The staff came down on the floor at the exact spot where he lay a moment ago. Suraj jumped to his feet. His eyes met those of the master.
A broad smile spread across Zubin’s face.
Emboldened, Suraj asked. “Does this mean my training can begin?”
“No,” Zubin replied. “Your training is over.”
Only then did Suraj grasp the scope of the lesson that he had been given. All those attacks, all the time the master had been teaching him to move instinctively, to react without thinking, at speeds that the mind cannot process, to stay alert at all times and not get lost in random thoughts. There was method behind Zubin’s apparent madness.
Suraj smiled. He gathered his belongings and prepared to leave. He stood outside the hut and bowed down on his knees before the master, in a gesture of gratitude. Zubin brought his staff down and planted one final, delicate blow on Suraj’s shoulder blades. Without a word, the master turned and disappeared inside his hut.
Nobody Cares
Marco leaned back on his reclining, leather chair and exhaled. It had been an action-packed summer for the Law Offices of Peterson & Peterson. From real estate disputes to personal injury claims to intellectual property theft, the firm had landed a flurry of lawsuits. Being a high-performing associate, Marco got a thick slice of the action.
He looked down at his desk. A sea of papers and files submerged every square inch of the wooden surface. Nights and weekends had been consumed to flesh out every detail of every case that came to him. When the annual bonus was handed out, he got his payoff. Fair reward for countless hours of effort.
Marco spent his entire bonus on his daughter’s birthday gift. A eleven carat diamond necklace. The platinum chain was slimmer than a needle. The pendant was a butterfly, both its wings sparkling with stunning brightness. Delicate. Feminine. Graceful. The perfect gift. Julia was worth every penny. Marco could picture her leap into the air with delight when she laid her eyes on that beauty. All those long hours at the office seemed worth it.
He picked up his new purchase and grinned the rest of his way home. He took up position behind the couch, a few feet from the front door. His left hand slid behind his back, and clasped the blue case enclosing the necklace. He waited.
Half an hour passed, still no sign of Julia. Marco paced up and down. He checked his watch. 6:30 pm. He considered calling her, but decided against it.
Fifteen minutes later, the door bell rang.
Marco skipped ahead and had the door open in a flash. Julia wore a plain yellow top and faded blue jeans. As usual, she had no makeup. But her eyes had a twinkle. A spark that Marco hadn’t got tired of seeing for twenty five years since his daughter was born.
“Hi dad.” She said, and brushed past him.
“Hi.” Marco turned to see her rushing towards her room. “Wait a minute…I have something for you.”
Julia paused, “What’s up?” Her cell phone beeped and she turned her attention towards it.
“Come here a minute.” Marco said.
“Ha?” Julia didn’t look up from her phone. Her fingers deftly pushed some keys.
“I know your birthday is few days away.” Marco said. “But I couldn’t contain myself. I got your gift early.”
Julia glanced up. “That’s nice.” Her phone beeped again. “I have to leave in a hurry.”
“Put that phone away, and take a look at this.” Marco said. “Are you ready?”
“Uh-huh.” Julia mumbled.
Marco brought his hand in front of him. At a deliberate pace, he undid the latch and opened the case, inch-by-inch.
“Here it is.” He revealed the necklace. The wings of the butterfly pendant shone under his eyes. “Happy twenty-fifth birthday.”
Julia studied the necklace. “Nice, nice. This is cool.”
Marco watched his daughter closely. She eyed the necklace for a moment longer. Then, her cell phone rang. She answered it instantly. “Yeah sure, I’ll be there in five minutes.”
She looked at her father. “Thanks, dad. I got to head out now.”
Marco’s eyes lowered. His face fell. “Wait, don’t you want to try it on…”
The front door swung shut. She was gone. Marco shook his head. He slid the necklace back in the case and snapped the lid shut. An ache grew at the pit of his stomach.
“She doesn’t even care.” He whispered to himself.
*******
Joey drained the last sip from his coffee-stained mug. It was his fourth cup for the night. A beep sounded from the digital clock on his desk. 2:00 am. The file lying under his eyes rose eight inches tall, and ended higher than his coffee mug. Carrying it home from office had been more strenuous than doing biceps at the gym. He had read every page. Twice.
After analyzing all the necessary information, he had prepared his report. A concise ten page summary of everything that his boss needed to know about the case. The life of a paralegal was laborious. But Joey was good at his job. He would wager every cent in his savings account that no useful detail had escaped him.
He read his own report again. It was in simple language, with short sentences that got right to the point. Just the way the boss liked it. His boss was a smarty pants associate, who was on the fast track to becoming a partner in the firm. It was Joey’s job to ensure the boss had access to all the information when he needed it. And Joey knew his boss would be pleased with his research. The report was indexed. The key points were highlighted. A bulleted summary was provided at the end for quick reference.
Satisfied that there were no errors, Joey turned off the lights. He slipped into bed with the hint of a smile on the corner of his lips. He could already hear the words of praise from his boss.
The next morning, Joey strode into the Law Offices of Peterson & Peterson at precisely 8:00 am. His navy blue shirt had been thoroughly ironed. He held his report in his right hand. He sat in his cubicle and waited.
Joey checked his watch for the second time in two minutes. 8:15 am. It was unlike his boss to be late. Joey hovered in the corridor.
At 8:30 am, Marco finally bustled into the office.
Joey sprung forward, clutching his report. “Hey Marco.”
Marco turned and offered a barely perceptible nod. He continued walking.
“I did the research on the Johnson vs Green case. Here is my report.” Joey extended the report towards his boss. Marco took it and nodded. Without a word, he entered his private cabin.
Joey swallowed. “I think you’ll find all the relevant details in there…”
The door to Marco’s office swung shut. Joey stared at it. He clenched his fist.
“He doesn’t give a shit.” Joey muttered.
*******
Alex brought out a clean cloth and wiped the golden surface of his saxophone till it was spotless. The instrument had cost him close to three thousand dollars. For a struggling musician with no steady source of income, that was a fortune.
He inhaled deeply and exhaled slowly. He would need his lungs to last all day. He had rehearsed day after day, night after night. Every tune in his planned routine had been perfected. He was ready.
The summer fair was a popular annual event in the city. There was art, sculpture, stand-up comedy, food, and god knows what else. For the first time, Alex had the chance to perform at the fair. He set his heart to entertain the public.
At 9:00 am, he began playing. He hit the right notes from the outset. He had a spot on the footpath somewhere between the food stalls and sculpture displays. On his table, he had placed a bunch of his CDs, hoping that music lovers would listen to him and make an impulse buy.
Few people began to stroll around the fair. Some went to the food stalls, some went to check out the art. Alex didn’t have much of an audience, but he played with gusto.
By lunch time, the place was teeming with people. The food stalls had long lines. People thronged to buy trinkets and pottery and other stuff. A few had even acquired a painting or two. But hardly any one stopped to listen to the melodious sounds emanating from Alex’s saxophone.
Nevertheless, Alex played on. He poured his energy into his favorite Beethoven composition. With missing a single beat, he hit the crescendo of the piece. He exhaled and looked up. No one was listening. He saw people haggling for prices or chewing on hot dogs. He couldn’t believe it. Surely, someone there could appreciate a Beethoven piece.
Two men stopped next to his table. Hanging from their shoulders were leather brief-cases with a small plack stitched on them that read ‘Law Offices of Peterson & Peterson’. Alex felt a glimmer of hope that they had heard him play and wanted CDs. He moved towards them.
“See you at the office, Joey.” One man said, and walked away. The man he called Joey wore a navy blue shirt that didn’t have any creases. He chewed a piece of gum.
“Hello sir,” Alex smiled. “These CDs are for only 3 bucks each. Would you like to…”
Joey raised a hand and shook his head. He walked a couple of paces ahead. He paused, turned his head and spat out his gum on the concrete, right next to where Alex had left his saxophone. Then he marched off on his way.
Alex gazed after him. His mouth hung open. His cheeks turned red.
“Nobody fuckin’ cares.” He said aloud.
*******
Julia took a taste of the pasta sauce. It was tangy, without being spicy. It was not too thick and not too watery. Just the way her boyfriend liked it. She mixed in the penne pasta and turned her attention to the stir-fried vegetables. She checked the clock. 9:00 pm. The feast would be ready in time.
She had to change two trains to reach her boyfriend’s place, on the other side of town. The side of town looked down upon by upper-middle class people, such as big shot lawyers like her father.
But Julia loved that quaint little apartment that Alex rented. Even though, the whole apartment was no larger than her bedroom back home. Even though, the apartment had dusty floors, patchy paint on the walls and not enough ventilation.
She loved it because of all the time she had spent there with Alex. Poor fellow struggled to make his rent. But, she saw the creativity in him. He composed songs that were delightful in their honesty. Alex was so simple at heart. Not like those nose-in-the-air, ass-licking associates at the Law Offices of Peterson and Peterson, who worked with her father.
Today was a big day for Alex since he was performing at the fair. Julia wanted to surprise him with a scrumptious meal when he reached home. She had a set of keys to his apartment and had been in there for over two hours, cooking.
Julia had put the lessons she learned during cooking classes to good use. The pasta sauce was made from fresh tomatoes and hand-picked spices. She placed it at the centre of the table. Next to it was the stir-fry in a crystal bowl. On the side was a newly acquired bottle of red wine. In the fridge, the desert lay waiting. Lemon custard and a freshly baked chocolate cake that she had labored all day over. In fact, she had the spent most of last week, planning every last detail of this meal.
She put out two sets of plates, napkins, knives and spoons. She stood back and admired her handiwork. She could foresee the look of excitement on Alex’s face when he walked in and took a look at the dinner. She smiled.
Half an hour later, Alex hadn’t returned. Julia re-heated the food. She walked back and forth.
At 10:30 pm Alex, staggered into the apartment. Julia rushed towards him. “Hi baby. What took you so long? How was the fair?”
Alex blinked. “Umm...it was okay.”
“I made you dinner.” She smiled. “Come, let’s eat.” She took his hand.
But Alex wriggled free. “I’m not so hungry.”
A distinct smell originated from him. Julia knew that smell. “Have you been drinking?”
“Umm…no.” Alex kicked off his shoes. “Maybe, just a little.” He stumbled towards his room.
“Don’t you want to eat…” Julia began.
There was no response. She went to his room and found her musician boyfriend, slumped on the floor, sound asleep and starting to snore.
She put her hands on her hips. A scowl covered her face.
“He doesn’t care.” She let out a shriek.
*******
He looked down at his desk. A sea of papers and files submerged every square inch of the wooden surface. Nights and weekends had been consumed to flesh out every detail of every case that came to him. When the annual bonus was handed out, he got his payoff. Fair reward for countless hours of effort.
Marco spent his entire bonus on his daughter’s birthday gift. A eleven carat diamond necklace. The platinum chain was slimmer than a needle. The pendant was a butterfly, both its wings sparkling with stunning brightness. Delicate. Feminine. Graceful. The perfect gift. Julia was worth every penny. Marco could picture her leap into the air with delight when she laid her eyes on that beauty. All those long hours at the office seemed worth it.
He picked up his new purchase and grinned the rest of his way home. He took up position behind the couch, a few feet from the front door. His left hand slid behind his back, and clasped the blue case enclosing the necklace. He waited.
Half an hour passed, still no sign of Julia. Marco paced up and down. He checked his watch. 6:30 pm. He considered calling her, but decided against it.
Fifteen minutes later, the door bell rang.
Marco skipped ahead and had the door open in a flash. Julia wore a plain yellow top and faded blue jeans. As usual, she had no makeup. But her eyes had a twinkle. A spark that Marco hadn’t got tired of seeing for twenty five years since his daughter was born.
“Hi dad.” She said, and brushed past him.
“Hi.” Marco turned to see her rushing towards her room. “Wait a minute…I have something for you.”
Julia paused, “What’s up?” Her cell phone beeped and she turned her attention towards it.
“Come here a minute.” Marco said.
“Ha?” Julia didn’t look up from her phone. Her fingers deftly pushed some keys.
“I know your birthday is few days away.” Marco said. “But I couldn’t contain myself. I got your gift early.”
Julia glanced up. “That’s nice.” Her phone beeped again. “I have to leave in a hurry.”
“Put that phone away, and take a look at this.” Marco said. “Are you ready?”
“Uh-huh.” Julia mumbled.
Marco brought his hand in front of him. At a deliberate pace, he undid the latch and opened the case, inch-by-inch.
“Here it is.” He revealed the necklace. The wings of the butterfly pendant shone under his eyes. “Happy twenty-fifth birthday.”
Julia studied the necklace. “Nice, nice. This is cool.”
Marco watched his daughter closely. She eyed the necklace for a moment longer. Then, her cell phone rang. She answered it instantly. “Yeah sure, I’ll be there in five minutes.”
She looked at her father. “Thanks, dad. I got to head out now.”
Marco’s eyes lowered. His face fell. “Wait, don’t you want to try it on…”
The front door swung shut. She was gone. Marco shook his head. He slid the necklace back in the case and snapped the lid shut. An ache grew at the pit of his stomach.
“She doesn’t even care.” He whispered to himself.
*******
Joey drained the last sip from his coffee-stained mug. It was his fourth cup for the night. A beep sounded from the digital clock on his desk. 2:00 am. The file lying under his eyes rose eight inches tall, and ended higher than his coffee mug. Carrying it home from office had been more strenuous than doing biceps at the gym. He had read every page. Twice.
After analyzing all the necessary information, he had prepared his report. A concise ten page summary of everything that his boss needed to know about the case. The life of a paralegal was laborious. But Joey was good at his job. He would wager every cent in his savings account that no useful detail had escaped him.
He read his own report again. It was in simple language, with short sentences that got right to the point. Just the way the boss liked it. His boss was a smarty pants associate, who was on the fast track to becoming a partner in the firm. It was Joey’s job to ensure the boss had access to all the information when he needed it. And Joey knew his boss would be pleased with his research. The report was indexed. The key points were highlighted. A bulleted summary was provided at the end for quick reference.
Satisfied that there were no errors, Joey turned off the lights. He slipped into bed with the hint of a smile on the corner of his lips. He could already hear the words of praise from his boss.
The next morning, Joey strode into the Law Offices of Peterson & Peterson at precisely 8:00 am. His navy blue shirt had been thoroughly ironed. He held his report in his right hand. He sat in his cubicle and waited.
Joey checked his watch for the second time in two minutes. 8:15 am. It was unlike his boss to be late. Joey hovered in the corridor.
At 8:30 am, Marco finally bustled into the office.
Joey sprung forward, clutching his report. “Hey Marco.”
Marco turned and offered a barely perceptible nod. He continued walking.
“I did the research on the Johnson vs Green case. Here is my report.” Joey extended the report towards his boss. Marco took it and nodded. Without a word, he entered his private cabin.
Joey swallowed. “I think you’ll find all the relevant details in there…”
The door to Marco’s office swung shut. Joey stared at it. He clenched his fist.
“He doesn’t give a shit.” Joey muttered.
*******
Alex brought out a clean cloth and wiped the golden surface of his saxophone till it was spotless. The instrument had cost him close to three thousand dollars. For a struggling musician with no steady source of income, that was a fortune.
He inhaled deeply and exhaled slowly. He would need his lungs to last all day. He had rehearsed day after day, night after night. Every tune in his planned routine had been perfected. He was ready.
The summer fair was a popular annual event in the city. There was art, sculpture, stand-up comedy, food, and god knows what else. For the first time, Alex had the chance to perform at the fair. He set his heart to entertain the public.
At 9:00 am, he began playing. He hit the right notes from the outset. He had a spot on the footpath somewhere between the food stalls and sculpture displays. On his table, he had placed a bunch of his CDs, hoping that music lovers would listen to him and make an impulse buy.
Few people began to stroll around the fair. Some went to the food stalls, some went to check out the art. Alex didn’t have much of an audience, but he played with gusto.
By lunch time, the place was teeming with people. The food stalls had long lines. People thronged to buy trinkets and pottery and other stuff. A few had even acquired a painting or two. But hardly any one stopped to listen to the melodious sounds emanating from Alex’s saxophone.
Nevertheless, Alex played on. He poured his energy into his favorite Beethoven composition. With missing a single beat, he hit the crescendo of the piece. He exhaled and looked up. No one was listening. He saw people haggling for prices or chewing on hot dogs. He couldn’t believe it. Surely, someone there could appreciate a Beethoven piece.
Two men stopped next to his table. Hanging from their shoulders were leather brief-cases with a small plack stitched on them that read ‘Law Offices of Peterson & Peterson’. Alex felt a glimmer of hope that they had heard him play and wanted CDs. He moved towards them.
“See you at the office, Joey.” One man said, and walked away. The man he called Joey wore a navy blue shirt that didn’t have any creases. He chewed a piece of gum.
“Hello sir,” Alex smiled. “These CDs are for only 3 bucks each. Would you like to…”
Joey raised a hand and shook his head. He walked a couple of paces ahead. He paused, turned his head and spat out his gum on the concrete, right next to where Alex had left his saxophone. Then he marched off on his way.
Alex gazed after him. His mouth hung open. His cheeks turned red.
“Nobody fuckin’ cares.” He said aloud.
*******
Julia took a taste of the pasta sauce. It was tangy, without being spicy. It was not too thick and not too watery. Just the way her boyfriend liked it. She mixed in the penne pasta and turned her attention to the stir-fried vegetables. She checked the clock. 9:00 pm. The feast would be ready in time.
She had to change two trains to reach her boyfriend’s place, on the other side of town. The side of town looked down upon by upper-middle class people, such as big shot lawyers like her father.
But Julia loved that quaint little apartment that Alex rented. Even though, the whole apartment was no larger than her bedroom back home. Even though, the apartment had dusty floors, patchy paint on the walls and not enough ventilation.
She loved it because of all the time she had spent there with Alex. Poor fellow struggled to make his rent. But, she saw the creativity in him. He composed songs that were delightful in their honesty. Alex was so simple at heart. Not like those nose-in-the-air, ass-licking associates at the Law Offices of Peterson and Peterson, who worked with her father.
Today was a big day for Alex since he was performing at the fair. Julia wanted to surprise him with a scrumptious meal when he reached home. She had a set of keys to his apartment and had been in there for over two hours, cooking.
Julia had put the lessons she learned during cooking classes to good use. The pasta sauce was made from fresh tomatoes and hand-picked spices. She placed it at the centre of the table. Next to it was the stir-fry in a crystal bowl. On the side was a newly acquired bottle of red wine. In the fridge, the desert lay waiting. Lemon custard and a freshly baked chocolate cake that she had labored all day over. In fact, she had the spent most of last week, planning every last detail of this meal.
She put out two sets of plates, napkins, knives and spoons. She stood back and admired her handiwork. She could foresee the look of excitement on Alex’s face when he walked in and took a look at the dinner. She smiled.
Half an hour later, Alex hadn’t returned. Julia re-heated the food. She walked back and forth.
At 10:30 pm Alex, staggered into the apartment. Julia rushed towards him. “Hi baby. What took you so long? How was the fair?”
Alex blinked. “Umm...it was okay.”
“I made you dinner.” She smiled. “Come, let’s eat.” She took his hand.
But Alex wriggled free. “I’m not so hungry.”
A distinct smell originated from him. Julia knew that smell. “Have you been drinking?”
“Umm…no.” Alex kicked off his shoes. “Maybe, just a little.” He stumbled towards his room.
“Don’t you want to eat…” Julia began.
There was no response. She went to his room and found her musician boyfriend, slumped on the floor, sound asleep and starting to snore.
She put her hands on her hips. A scowl covered her face.
“He doesn’t care.” She let out a shriek.
*******
More on Happiness
Happiness is a favorite subject of mine, which I frequently contemplate upon. All of us constantly want to be happy. All of our activities, our pursuit of a successful career, a healthy body, an ideal relationship, an abundance of wealth or fame – are all directed searches for this fleeting state of happiness. Yet, it keeps eluding us. Even if we get what we think will make us happy, the feeling disappears before we know it.
As a deviation from the norm, this post will be echoing another person’s thoughts rather than my own. The person in question is spiritual guide, psychotherapist and Jesuit priest, Anthony De Mello. Here is what he had to say:
“Recall the kind of feeling you have when someone praises you; when you are applauded and approved. Contrast this with the kind of feeling that arises within you when you look at a beautiful sunset or read a book or watch a movie that you thoroughly enjoy.
Understand that the first type of feeling comes from self-glorification and self-promotion. It is a worldly feeling. The second comes from contentment and self-fulfillment. It is a soul feeling.
Here is another contrast: Recall the kind of feeling you have when you succeed, when you have made it, when you win a game or bet or argument, when you get that job offer, or college admission. Contrast it with the kind of feeling you get when really enjoy the activity that you are currently doing, when you so absorbed in the action that you lose track of time. Once again, notice the qualitative difference between the worldly feeling and the soul feeling.
Yet another contrast: Remember what you felt like when you had power, when you were the boss, when people looked up to you or when you were popular. Contrast that with the feeling of companionship, the times you simply enjoyed a conversation with a friend or group of friends in which there was fun and laughter.
Having done this, attempt to understand the true nature of worldly feelings, namely feelings of self-promotion and self-glorification. They are meant to appeal to your ego. They are not natural. They are invented by your mental conditioning. You are trained to believe if you succeed, win, have power, get applauded, then you should feel great. These feelings do not produce the nourishment and happiness that is produced when one contemplates Nature, or enjoys the company of a friend, a good book or movie or enjoys one’s work.
Then observe yourself during the course of a day or week and think how many of your actions are performed, how many activities you engaged in that were driven by your desire for attention, approval, fame, popularity, success, or power. And take a look at people around you. Is there a single one of them who has not become addicted to these worldly feelings, who does not hunger for them? When you see this, you will understand how people attempt to gain the world and in the process lose their soul.”
As a deviation from the norm, this post will be echoing another person’s thoughts rather than my own. The person in question is spiritual guide, psychotherapist and Jesuit priest, Anthony De Mello. Here is what he had to say:
“Recall the kind of feeling you have when someone praises you; when you are applauded and approved. Contrast this with the kind of feeling that arises within you when you look at a beautiful sunset or read a book or watch a movie that you thoroughly enjoy.
Understand that the first type of feeling comes from self-glorification and self-promotion. It is a worldly feeling. The second comes from contentment and self-fulfillment. It is a soul feeling.
Here is another contrast: Recall the kind of feeling you have when you succeed, when you have made it, when you win a game or bet or argument, when you get that job offer, or college admission. Contrast it with the kind of feeling you get when really enjoy the activity that you are currently doing, when you so absorbed in the action that you lose track of time. Once again, notice the qualitative difference between the worldly feeling and the soul feeling.
Yet another contrast: Remember what you felt like when you had power, when you were the boss, when people looked up to you or when you were popular. Contrast that with the feeling of companionship, the times you simply enjoyed a conversation with a friend or group of friends in which there was fun and laughter.
Having done this, attempt to understand the true nature of worldly feelings, namely feelings of self-promotion and self-glorification. They are meant to appeal to your ego. They are not natural. They are invented by your mental conditioning. You are trained to believe if you succeed, win, have power, get applauded, then you should feel great. These feelings do not produce the nourishment and happiness that is produced when one contemplates Nature, or enjoys the company of a friend, a good book or movie or enjoys one’s work.
Then observe yourself during the course of a day or week and think how many of your actions are performed, how many activities you engaged in that were driven by your desire for attention, approval, fame, popularity, success, or power. And take a look at people around you. Is there a single one of them who has not become addicted to these worldly feelings, who does not hunger for them? When you see this, you will understand how people attempt to gain the world and in the process lose their soul.”
Six Word Stories
A while back, I was introduced to this concept of six-word stories. Skeptical? Hemingway once wrote a story (shown below) in just six words and is said to have considered it amongst his best work.
“For sale: baby shoes, never worn.”
A writer’s organization challenged all members to write stories in only six words. Below is my contribution. Bear in mind that these are impulsive attempts to pass some time. No editing or quality bar.
· Wanted Pet Dog: Dead or Alive.
· Two walked in, one walked out.
· Yoda to Obe-Wan: Open your fly is.
· He came. He saw. He ran.
· When in doubt, take a left.
· One step forward, two step backwards.
· Broken window. Broken wall. Broken heart.
· Beatings will continue until morale improves.
· The morning after the night before.
· Out of darkness, comes the light.
- Contest of skills, battle of wills.
- Do nothing, and then rest afterwords.
- When all else fails, play dead.
- Always late, but worth the wait.
- What has to happen, will happen.
- Death is certain, its time isn't.
It’s a fun exercise. I’ll update this page from time to time, if I produce any more. If you’re reading this and can come up with any six word stories, feel free to put them as comments.
“For sale: baby shoes, never worn.”
A writer’s organization challenged all members to write stories in only six words. Below is my contribution. Bear in mind that these are impulsive attempts to pass some time. No editing or quality bar.
· Wanted Pet Dog: Dead or Alive.
· Two walked in, one walked out.
· Yoda to Obe-Wan: Open your fly is.
· He came. He saw. He ran.
· When in doubt, take a left.
· One step forward, two step backwards.
· Broken window. Broken wall. Broken heart.
· Beatings will continue until morale improves.
· The morning after the night before.
· Out of darkness, comes the light.
- Contest of skills, battle of wills.
- Do nothing, and then rest afterwords.
- When all else fails, play dead.
- Always late, but worth the wait.
- What has to happen, will happen.
- Death is certain, its time isn't.
It’s a fun exercise. I’ll update this page from time to time, if I produce any more. If you’re reading this and can come up with any six word stories, feel free to put them as comments.
The Artist
Shankar paused and sucked in a breath. The staircase was pitch-dark, with no one in sight. He reached out his hand to feel the wall. With the other hand, he held his cell phone to provide some light. He steadied himself and climbed. The wooden stairs creaked.
“This better be worth it.” Shankar muttered. Kabir, the master artist who he was to meet, was a legend. Everyone in Delhi’s upper class swore by his name. The millionaire industrialist, Aamir, called him India’s Da Vinci.
When Shankar saw the master’s work, he was awestruck. He vowed to acquire a Kabir painting someday. Come hell or high water. Or a darkened staircase from a previous century, living on its last legs.
No one knew much about Kabir. Where he came from, who his family was, even his last name. His paintings were traded in the underground market accessible only to the wealthy and the powerful. Those who acquired his work firsthand wouldn’t talk. At least not publicly.
Shankar’s garment business had sky-rocketed in the past year, putting him squarely in the rich man’s club. He made the right connections, started a few discrete inquiries. One person led him to another. He threw money around like it was paper. Funny how a few extra zeros in a number can make even the most tight-lipped folks sing like a canary.
Eventually, he found the master’s liaison, Pankaj, who arranged a meeting. So, he found himself climbing the staircase of that dilapidated building at an ungodly hour in the morning. The instructions were strict. He had to arrive at sharp six fifteen. He had to be alone and dressed in a yellow shirt. Eccentric frickin’ painter.
Shankar reached the end of the stairs. A rustic wooden door loomed before him, chipped all over. He checked his watch. Six fourteen. On an instinct, he decided to wait. A person this crazy could well be offended if he showed up a minute early.
At precisely six fifteen, Shankar rapped his knuckles on the door. The door swung inwards by few inches. Two dark eyes stared at him.
Shankar cleared his throat. “Yes, I’m Shankar. I’m here to meet Kabir.”
The eyes flickered. No words were spoken in response.
The door swung shut. Shankar blinked. He gritted his teeth. “Wait. Let me in. I’ve followed every instruction. Its six fifteen. I’m alone. I’m wearing yellow. I haven’t told anyone.”
The door opened again. Little by little, until it was fully open. The man standing there had an oval face, a frail body and curly, unkempt hair. He wore a yellow kurta and yellow pajamas. His eyes never left Shankar, who felt naked under his gaze.
The master stepped inside and gestured for Shankar to follow. The living room was dimly lit. Newspapers and magazines were scattered around. On a wooden drawing table lay white sketch papers and brushes. Next to it were two low brown stools. There was no other furniture.
The master sat cross-legged on a stool and pointed to the other one.
Shankar lowered himself on the stool. “You are Kabir?”
The master made no attempt to reply.
“Okay, so I really love your work.” Shankar said. “I loved it when I first saw it and I just have to have your painting.”
The master just stared.
Shankar paused, and went on. “I have a special fondness for cats. Any felines, actually, but especially cats. I keep several of them as pets. I would be delighted if I could get a painting of a cat. A painting so magnificent that it should be more alive than a real cat.”
The master’s eyes flicked from side to side. “A cat you say?”
Shankar smiled, relieved to get any response. “Yes. I’m willing to pay any amount…”
The master waved his hand in dismissal. “What kind of cat?”
“A Persian cat, with black fur…and a long tail.”
The master nodded his leonine head. He stood up abruptly. “Come back in two months. Same time, same clothes.”
Shankar stood up. “Alright, thank you so much. I can pay in advance. How much…”
The master frowned, “Later.”
Two months later, Shankar rushed up and knocked on the door, bristling with anticipation. He was about to see his Persian cat come to life. He could scarcely contain himself.
The door swung open. The master was dressed in the same yellow kurta and yellow pajama. He glared back at Shankar. “It’s not ready. Come back in four months.”
Shankar’s face fell. “Four more months? But…”
The door had already swung shut.
“Crazy freak.” Shankar muttered. He left the building, grumbling to himself. He had no choice but to wait.
The more he waited, the stronger his anticipation grew. He identified a spot in the living room where his Kabir painting would be displayed in full view.
After four restless months, Shankar raced up the dark staircase and knocked on the door.
The door opened. The master’s clothes were disheveled and his face unshaven. A musty stench emanated from him. He grunted. “Not yet. Six more months.”
The door slammed close. Shankar still hadn’t caught his breath. “What the hell’s going on here?” He shouted. He clenched his fist and punched the wall.
He rubbed his knuckles. This was insane. How long would he flounder at the whim of this psychopath? Was he really India’s Da Vinci as they claimed?
Shankar went home and consulted the affluent circle. Their advice was unanimous and unambiguous. Wait. If you have a chance of getting a Kabir painting, then just wait for it.
Shankar resigned himself to waiting. Every night he dreamt of his forthcoming painting. He marked the exact spot on the wall and wandered around it, imagining his Persian cat there. He could think of nothing else.
A year after he first met Kabir, Shankar knocked on the door for a fourth time. He said a silent prayer.
The master opened the door wide, with a hint of a smile on his lips. “Come in.”
Shankar’s eyes lit up. His face flushed red. The moment had arrived. He followed the master and sat on the stool.
The master took an empty white sketch paper and positioned it on the drawing table. He carefully arranged his brushes and paints. He began work.
Shankar watched him wide-eyed. It was like watching trapeze artist. Every stroke was graceful and precise. His hands waved the brush on the paper like a magician’s wand.
Ten minutes later, the master paused and studied his work. He beckoned Shankar to look.
Shankar looked at the painting and went weak in the knees. The Persian cat had fluffy black fur. The tail extended back and curled upwards. The nose was small but distinct. But what really left him speechless were the eyes. Two jet-black pupils danced amidst a white backdrop. The eyes called out to him. They connected with a part of his sub-conscious that he couldn’t understand. He wanted to cuddle the little thing like there was no tomorrow.
Five minutes passed, Shankar still stood like a statue. The master had a contented grin.
Shankar stammered. “Yes, yes…this is the best thing I’ve ever seen..yes…this is it…this is perfection…” He took a deep breath. “Thank you so much. How much do I owe you?”
The master wrote the amount on a piece of paper. Shankar looked it and nodded. “I will bring the money first thing tomorrow.”
As Shankar started to leave, a thought occurred to him. He turned to the master. “This painting is amazing…it’s beyond amazing…but, I saw you paint it in ten minutes. Then, how come you sent me away before? Why did you make me wait so long?
The master just smiled.
Shankar shook his head. “You were amusing yourself or something, ha? Is it your fetish to toy with the emotions of people like me? What the hell were you doing for one year if you have such a god-given talent that you can paint a masterpiece in ten minutes?”
The master walked inside his bedroom and indicated for Shankar to follow. He went up to a tall cupboard in a corner and opened it.
Several bundles of paintings tumbled to the floor. Shankar examined them. They were paintings of black Persian cats much like the one he had. He went to the cupboard and found it packed to the brim with sketches of Persian cats. There must have been at least a thousand.
“This is what I was doing for the past year.” The master said softly. “I haven’t rested for a single day. You say I have a god-given talent. But the truth is that I don’t. No one does. Talent is acquired after endless hours of patient work. I had to perfect every shade, every shape, every brush stroke. It took one year of practice before I was able to produce, in ten minutes, the thing you have in your hand.”
Shankar’s mouth hung open, his eyes glazed. No wonder the guy was so eccentric. He nodded, took his painting and left. For the first time in his life, he understood what it took to be a true master.
“This better be worth it.” Shankar muttered. Kabir, the master artist who he was to meet, was a legend. Everyone in Delhi’s upper class swore by his name. The millionaire industrialist, Aamir, called him India’s Da Vinci.
When Shankar saw the master’s work, he was awestruck. He vowed to acquire a Kabir painting someday. Come hell or high water. Or a darkened staircase from a previous century, living on its last legs.
No one knew much about Kabir. Where he came from, who his family was, even his last name. His paintings were traded in the underground market accessible only to the wealthy and the powerful. Those who acquired his work firsthand wouldn’t talk. At least not publicly.
Shankar’s garment business had sky-rocketed in the past year, putting him squarely in the rich man’s club. He made the right connections, started a few discrete inquiries. One person led him to another. He threw money around like it was paper. Funny how a few extra zeros in a number can make even the most tight-lipped folks sing like a canary.
Eventually, he found the master’s liaison, Pankaj, who arranged a meeting. So, he found himself climbing the staircase of that dilapidated building at an ungodly hour in the morning. The instructions were strict. He had to arrive at sharp six fifteen. He had to be alone and dressed in a yellow shirt. Eccentric frickin’ painter.
Shankar reached the end of the stairs. A rustic wooden door loomed before him, chipped all over. He checked his watch. Six fourteen. On an instinct, he decided to wait. A person this crazy could well be offended if he showed up a minute early.
At precisely six fifteen, Shankar rapped his knuckles on the door. The door swung inwards by few inches. Two dark eyes stared at him.
Shankar cleared his throat. “Yes, I’m Shankar. I’m here to meet Kabir.”
The eyes flickered. No words were spoken in response.
The door swung shut. Shankar blinked. He gritted his teeth. “Wait. Let me in. I’ve followed every instruction. Its six fifteen. I’m alone. I’m wearing yellow. I haven’t told anyone.”
The door opened again. Little by little, until it was fully open. The man standing there had an oval face, a frail body and curly, unkempt hair. He wore a yellow kurta and yellow pajamas. His eyes never left Shankar, who felt naked under his gaze.
The master stepped inside and gestured for Shankar to follow. The living room was dimly lit. Newspapers and magazines were scattered around. On a wooden drawing table lay white sketch papers and brushes. Next to it were two low brown stools. There was no other furniture.
The master sat cross-legged on a stool and pointed to the other one.
Shankar lowered himself on the stool. “You are Kabir?”
The master made no attempt to reply.
“Okay, so I really love your work.” Shankar said. “I loved it when I first saw it and I just have to have your painting.”
The master just stared.
Shankar paused, and went on. “I have a special fondness for cats. Any felines, actually, but especially cats. I keep several of them as pets. I would be delighted if I could get a painting of a cat. A painting so magnificent that it should be more alive than a real cat.”
The master’s eyes flicked from side to side. “A cat you say?”
Shankar smiled, relieved to get any response. “Yes. I’m willing to pay any amount…”
The master waved his hand in dismissal. “What kind of cat?”
“A Persian cat, with black fur…and a long tail.”
The master nodded his leonine head. He stood up abruptly. “Come back in two months. Same time, same clothes.”
Shankar stood up. “Alright, thank you so much. I can pay in advance. How much…”
The master frowned, “Later.”
Two months later, Shankar rushed up and knocked on the door, bristling with anticipation. He was about to see his Persian cat come to life. He could scarcely contain himself.
The door swung open. The master was dressed in the same yellow kurta and yellow pajama. He glared back at Shankar. “It’s not ready. Come back in four months.”
Shankar’s face fell. “Four more months? But…”
The door had already swung shut.
“Crazy freak.” Shankar muttered. He left the building, grumbling to himself. He had no choice but to wait.
The more he waited, the stronger his anticipation grew. He identified a spot in the living room where his Kabir painting would be displayed in full view.
After four restless months, Shankar raced up the dark staircase and knocked on the door.
The door opened. The master’s clothes were disheveled and his face unshaven. A musty stench emanated from him. He grunted. “Not yet. Six more months.”
The door slammed close. Shankar still hadn’t caught his breath. “What the hell’s going on here?” He shouted. He clenched his fist and punched the wall.
He rubbed his knuckles. This was insane. How long would he flounder at the whim of this psychopath? Was he really India’s Da Vinci as they claimed?
Shankar went home and consulted the affluent circle. Their advice was unanimous and unambiguous. Wait. If you have a chance of getting a Kabir painting, then just wait for it.
Shankar resigned himself to waiting. Every night he dreamt of his forthcoming painting. He marked the exact spot on the wall and wandered around it, imagining his Persian cat there. He could think of nothing else.
A year after he first met Kabir, Shankar knocked on the door for a fourth time. He said a silent prayer.
The master opened the door wide, with a hint of a smile on his lips. “Come in.”
Shankar’s eyes lit up. His face flushed red. The moment had arrived. He followed the master and sat on the stool.
The master took an empty white sketch paper and positioned it on the drawing table. He carefully arranged his brushes and paints. He began work.
Shankar watched him wide-eyed. It was like watching trapeze artist. Every stroke was graceful and precise. His hands waved the brush on the paper like a magician’s wand.
Ten minutes later, the master paused and studied his work. He beckoned Shankar to look.
Shankar looked at the painting and went weak in the knees. The Persian cat had fluffy black fur. The tail extended back and curled upwards. The nose was small but distinct. But what really left him speechless were the eyes. Two jet-black pupils danced amidst a white backdrop. The eyes called out to him. They connected with a part of his sub-conscious that he couldn’t understand. He wanted to cuddle the little thing like there was no tomorrow.
Five minutes passed, Shankar still stood like a statue. The master had a contented grin.
Shankar stammered. “Yes, yes…this is the best thing I’ve ever seen..yes…this is it…this is perfection…” He took a deep breath. “Thank you so much. How much do I owe you?”
The master wrote the amount on a piece of paper. Shankar looked it and nodded. “I will bring the money first thing tomorrow.”
As Shankar started to leave, a thought occurred to him. He turned to the master. “This painting is amazing…it’s beyond amazing…but, I saw you paint it in ten minutes. Then, how come you sent me away before? Why did you make me wait so long?
The master just smiled.
Shankar shook his head. “You were amusing yourself or something, ha? Is it your fetish to toy with the emotions of people like me? What the hell were you doing for one year if you have such a god-given talent that you can paint a masterpiece in ten minutes?”
The master walked inside his bedroom and indicated for Shankar to follow. He went up to a tall cupboard in a corner and opened it.
Several bundles of paintings tumbled to the floor. Shankar examined them. They were paintings of black Persian cats much like the one he had. He went to the cupboard and found it packed to the brim with sketches of Persian cats. There must have been at least a thousand.
“This is what I was doing for the past year.” The master said softly. “I haven’t rested for a single day. You say I have a god-given talent. But the truth is that I don’t. No one does. Talent is acquired after endless hours of patient work. I had to perfect every shade, every shape, every brush stroke. It took one year of practice before I was able to produce, in ten minutes, the thing you have in your hand.”
Shankar’s mouth hung open, his eyes glazed. No wonder the guy was so eccentric. He nodded, took his painting and left. For the first time in his life, he understood what it took to be a true master.
The Serial Phone-Killer
Do you believe your cell phone is sturdy, or even indestructible? Cell phone companies work hard to build phones that can endure rough use. However, certain customers, like Naveen, find ingenious ways to demonstrate the mortality of these pocket-sized devices that we cannot do without. Naveen, as a cell phone user, is a like a devastating hurricane. No manufacturer would want to design phones to cater to Naveen’s requirements.
Below are few incidents that illustrate Naveen’s destructive abilities.
When Nature Calls
Naveen needed to urinate. When nature calls, one has no choice but to respond. He paused his dvd of ‘Titanic’ at a critical juncture when the ice-berg was about to strike. He strode to the bathroom. He unzipped his jeans, his mind preoccupied with the looming disaster on the ship of dreams. A jarring ring interrupted his thoughts. He felt his pocket vibrate.
He brought out his new Nokia camera phone. The caller was Anjali. Cute and sexy, Anjali. She was one girl whose call he couldn’t refuse. His bladder was full. The ice-berg was about to hit. The Nokia rang insistently, flashing the name Anjali in bold letters across its screen.
Naveen pressed the green button. “He..Hello..” He stammered.
“Naveen,” Her voice sounded so melodious to him. “Where are you?”
“Ha? Umm…umm...I am…” Naveen struggled to find words.
He had a splash sound.
He looked down. The Nokia had transported itself from the palm of his hand into the commode where he was about to deposit his urine. His eyes widened, his mouth hung open.
He stood there frozen stiff. That’s when his bladder ran out of patience and decided to release. A wetness spread inside his jeans. His mind went blank. By force of habit, he pressed the toilet flush.
He stared in horror as the water in the commode got sucked into the orifice at the bottom, taking his Nokia with it. A sound of crunching metal was audible as the Nokia didn’t go down without a fight. The Nokia banged against the sides of the commode as it got sucked down.
Naveen snapped to his senses. He extended his right arm and pulled up the Nokia just before it went inside.
The Nokia gazed back at him like a man on his death bed. The screen was smashed. Several number keys had come off. The edges were chipped. The device was soaked in water.
R.I.P.: Naveen’s Nokia, whose last potential picture would not have been a pretty one.
Laundry Day
Naveen woke up to find himself lying spread-eagled on his bed. His clothes and shoes from last night were still on him. A throbbing pain pounded his head. It felt like his brain was being squeezed and pushed against his skull. His clothes smelled of alcohol. His legs hurt from the dancing.
He made a herculean effort to push himself out of bed. Sunday was laundry day. He slipped off his shirt, jeans and underwear and threw them along with his other dirty clothes into the washer. He staggered across to the bathroom, and stood underneath a hot shower.
After a long bath, he felt like a human again. He decided to check Facebook to see if any pictures from last night’s party had been posted.
He had left his laptop at work on Friday. He smiled. That’s why God made smart phones. The Facebook app on his new Blackberry was a joy to use. He went to his bedside table. No sign of the Blackberry there. He rummaged through his drawers, but to no avail.
Naveen blinked and blinked again. Where was the Blackberry hiding? He scoured every nook and cranny of his apartment but he couldn’t find it. The Blackberry had cost him a buttload of money. It was a fantastic little device. He gulped down a glass of water and sat on the couch.
Yesterday, he made several calls from the club to sync with friends. After that…he couldn’t recollect anything after that.
Suddenly, he snapped his fingers and stood up. The jeans pockets. It had to be there. He took two steps ahead and paused mid-stride. The realization dawned upon him in a flash.
“Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck.” He shouted. He rushed towards the washer. He swung it open, and grappled through the mass of still-wet t-shirts, shirts, underwear, socks, etc. Amongst them were his jeans from last night.
Then he found the Blackberry, or rather the Device Formerly Known as The Blackberry. It had been reduced to a block of metal that would serve no practical purpose apart from being a paper-weight. The screen was in bits, the battery had come off, the sides were broken. Let’s not even get started on the keyboard.
R.I.P.: Naveen’s Blackberry whose last Facebook update would have been a dramatic one.
Chicken Tikka Masala
It was an event that happened at most once a month. Naveen decided to cook a meal. He had come home early from work and was in the mood for a fresh chicken curry.
However, he needed detailed help. So, he brought out his new iPhone, and called his mother in India. She asked him to use the pressure cooker, a cooking utensil unique to Indians, which vaporized water within a confined space to speed up the cooking process.
With the iPhone pressed to his ear, Naveen chopped onions and tomatoes, mixed spices and stirred the curry as per instructions. He held the prepared chicken pieces in one hand.
His mom ordered. “Put everything inside and shut the cooker for at least two whistles.”
“Okay, ma.”
“I have to go now.” She said. “Just put whatever is left inside and don’t forget to wait till all the steam is released before opening the cooker again.”
“I get it, ma.” Naveen shook his head. He wasn’t a five-year old. He knew steam could burn him.
“Bye, I’ll talk to you later.” His mom disconnected the line.
Naveen removed the iPhone from his ear and put everything into the pressure cooker. He set the burner on high and turned on the television, waiting for his Chicken Tikka Masala to cook.
The cooker made a noisy racket as it mashed together all its contents and released steam from the top. Naveen increased the volume on the TV. It occurred to him that instead of calling Mom, he could have installed a cooking app on the iPhone which had step-by-step instructions. There was an app for everything on the iPhone.
The iPhone…Where was it? He had it all the while he was cooking. Where did he put it?
He froze. His hands began to tremble.
“Holy fucking shit.” He leapt out of his seat and raced to the cooker. Twice his mom had told him to put everything inside the cooker. She probably didn’t mean the iPhone.
Beads of sweat formed on his forehead. The cooker sounded its first whistle. He was about to pry the lid open, when he stopped himself. He used a spoon to lift the air vent and turned his face away as the steam gushed out.
After the last of the steam was out, he opened the lid and looked inside. He put on gloves, reached in and brought out what was a corpse of the iPhone in a curry-soaked grave. The screen was a series of cracks, the back side had broken, the volume and power buttons had come off. The iPhone drowned in gravy. Pieces of chicken smothered it from all sides.
R.I.P.: Naveen’s iPhone, whose last app download could have been a self-preserving one.
So, as you can see, Naveen is every cell phone’s worst nightmare. Time and again, he circumvents the phone manufacturers’ best efforts to make a reliable, long-lasting device. Look out all you latest models. Naveen is shopping for a new phone.
Below are few incidents that illustrate Naveen’s destructive abilities.
When Nature Calls
Naveen needed to urinate. When nature calls, one has no choice but to respond. He paused his dvd of ‘Titanic’ at a critical juncture when the ice-berg was about to strike. He strode to the bathroom. He unzipped his jeans, his mind preoccupied with the looming disaster on the ship of dreams. A jarring ring interrupted his thoughts. He felt his pocket vibrate.
He brought out his new Nokia camera phone. The caller was Anjali. Cute and sexy, Anjali. She was one girl whose call he couldn’t refuse. His bladder was full. The ice-berg was about to hit. The Nokia rang insistently, flashing the name Anjali in bold letters across its screen.
Naveen pressed the green button. “He..Hello..” He stammered.
“Naveen,” Her voice sounded so melodious to him. “Where are you?”
“Ha? Umm…umm...I am…” Naveen struggled to find words.
He had a splash sound.
He looked down. The Nokia had transported itself from the palm of his hand into the commode where he was about to deposit his urine. His eyes widened, his mouth hung open.
He stood there frozen stiff. That’s when his bladder ran out of patience and decided to release. A wetness spread inside his jeans. His mind went blank. By force of habit, he pressed the toilet flush.
He stared in horror as the water in the commode got sucked into the orifice at the bottom, taking his Nokia with it. A sound of crunching metal was audible as the Nokia didn’t go down without a fight. The Nokia banged against the sides of the commode as it got sucked down.
Naveen snapped to his senses. He extended his right arm and pulled up the Nokia just before it went inside.
The Nokia gazed back at him like a man on his death bed. The screen was smashed. Several number keys had come off. The edges were chipped. The device was soaked in water.
R.I.P.: Naveen’s Nokia, whose last potential picture would not have been a pretty one.
Laundry Day
Naveen woke up to find himself lying spread-eagled on his bed. His clothes and shoes from last night were still on him. A throbbing pain pounded his head. It felt like his brain was being squeezed and pushed against his skull. His clothes smelled of alcohol. His legs hurt from the dancing.
He made a herculean effort to push himself out of bed. Sunday was laundry day. He slipped off his shirt, jeans and underwear and threw them along with his other dirty clothes into the washer. He staggered across to the bathroom, and stood underneath a hot shower.
After a long bath, he felt like a human again. He decided to check Facebook to see if any pictures from last night’s party had been posted.
He had left his laptop at work on Friday. He smiled. That’s why God made smart phones. The Facebook app on his new Blackberry was a joy to use. He went to his bedside table. No sign of the Blackberry there. He rummaged through his drawers, but to no avail.
Naveen blinked and blinked again. Where was the Blackberry hiding? He scoured every nook and cranny of his apartment but he couldn’t find it. The Blackberry had cost him a buttload of money. It was a fantastic little device. He gulped down a glass of water and sat on the couch.
Yesterday, he made several calls from the club to sync with friends. After that…he couldn’t recollect anything after that.
Suddenly, he snapped his fingers and stood up. The jeans pockets. It had to be there. He took two steps ahead and paused mid-stride. The realization dawned upon him in a flash.
“Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck.” He shouted. He rushed towards the washer. He swung it open, and grappled through the mass of still-wet t-shirts, shirts, underwear, socks, etc. Amongst them were his jeans from last night.
Then he found the Blackberry, or rather the Device Formerly Known as The Blackberry. It had been reduced to a block of metal that would serve no practical purpose apart from being a paper-weight. The screen was in bits, the battery had come off, the sides were broken. Let’s not even get started on the keyboard.
R.I.P.: Naveen’s Blackberry whose last Facebook update would have been a dramatic one.
Chicken Tikka Masala
It was an event that happened at most once a month. Naveen decided to cook a meal. He had come home early from work and was in the mood for a fresh chicken curry.
However, he needed detailed help. So, he brought out his new iPhone, and called his mother in India. She asked him to use the pressure cooker, a cooking utensil unique to Indians, which vaporized water within a confined space to speed up the cooking process.
With the iPhone pressed to his ear, Naveen chopped onions and tomatoes, mixed spices and stirred the curry as per instructions. He held the prepared chicken pieces in one hand.
His mom ordered. “Put everything inside and shut the cooker for at least two whistles.”
“Okay, ma.”
“I have to go now.” She said. “Just put whatever is left inside and don’t forget to wait till all the steam is released before opening the cooker again.”
“I get it, ma.” Naveen shook his head. He wasn’t a five-year old. He knew steam could burn him.
“Bye, I’ll talk to you later.” His mom disconnected the line.
Naveen removed the iPhone from his ear and put everything into the pressure cooker. He set the burner on high and turned on the television, waiting for his Chicken Tikka Masala to cook.
The cooker made a noisy racket as it mashed together all its contents and released steam from the top. Naveen increased the volume on the TV. It occurred to him that instead of calling Mom, he could have installed a cooking app on the iPhone which had step-by-step instructions. There was an app for everything on the iPhone.
The iPhone…Where was it? He had it all the while he was cooking. Where did he put it?
He froze. His hands began to tremble.
“Holy fucking shit.” He leapt out of his seat and raced to the cooker. Twice his mom had told him to put everything inside the cooker. She probably didn’t mean the iPhone.
Beads of sweat formed on his forehead. The cooker sounded its first whistle. He was about to pry the lid open, when he stopped himself. He used a spoon to lift the air vent and turned his face away as the steam gushed out.
After the last of the steam was out, he opened the lid and looked inside. He put on gloves, reached in and brought out what was a corpse of the iPhone in a curry-soaked grave. The screen was a series of cracks, the back side had broken, the volume and power buttons had come off. The iPhone drowned in gravy. Pieces of chicken smothered it from all sides.
R.I.P.: Naveen’s iPhone, whose last app download could have been a self-preserving one.
So, as you can see, Naveen is every cell phone’s worst nightmare. Time and again, he circumvents the phone manufacturers’ best efforts to make a reliable, long-lasting device. Look out all you latest models. Naveen is shopping for a new phone.
Change the Story
Below are two stories about Naveen’s six hour long flight from New York to Seattle.
Story 1:
Naveen shifted in his aisle seat. He wondered why airplanes had such cramped seats. His legs were too long for the narrow space. He felt stiff.
He glanced to his left. An enormous bulk of a middle-aged lady slumped in the next seat. Flesh dangled along her wide arms. Her body bulged outward like an inflated balloon. Naveen found himself being pushed towards the edge of his seat.
“Great, just fucking great.” Naveen muttered under his breath. How did these people get so huge? Were they just too lazy to exercise and too dumb to pay attention to their diet?
Naveen rang the bell for the air-hostess. The fat lady snored loudly in her sleep. He shook his head. Five minutes passed and still no sign of the air-hostess. He pushed the bell again. He craned his neck and saw the air-hostess approaching in her blue uniform with the tight skirt. She didn’t have the legs to pull off that skirt.
“Yes, sir?” She smiled at him. It was a fake smile.
“Can I get an orange juice?” Naveen demanded.
“Sure.” She nodded. “I’ll be back.”
Five minutes later, she still hadn’t returned. Naveen gritted his teeth.
Finally, she re-appeared. “Here’s your orange juice, sir.”
“What took you so long?” Naveen grabbed the glass. “The service on this flight is slow.”
“I’m very sorry, sir. We have a full flight. I had lots of passenger requests.” She smiled.
Naveen waved her off. He checked his watch. Still four hours to go. How was he going to get through this agonizing flight?
An hour before landing, Naveen twisted about, cranky as ever. The captain warned them of turbulence ahead. Naveen gripped the side of his seat. The plane swayed as it passed through the air pocket. He felt his body bumped off the seat for a moment.
What a disaster this flight had been. They didn’t even get the aircraft to fly smoothly. Maybe this was a sign of things to come. Maybe his new job would be full of turbulence and turmoil. Maybe his new colleagues would be dumb or non-responsive like the air-hostess. Maybe the whole thing was a mistake.
Story 2:
Naveen shifted in his aisle seat. His stretched his legs out as far as he could and made himself comfortable. He felt lucky to have gotten the aisle seat.
He glanced to his left. The lady next to him suffered from obesity. It had become an epidemic in America. He knew she was fighting a tough battle. He silently wished her luck.
He rang the bell for the air-hostess. The lady next to him snored loudly in her sleep. Naveen smiled. At least she managed to sleep so peacefully. Good for her.
Five minutes later, the air-hostess appeared in her blue uniform. She managed to look dignified in her skirt.
“Yes, sir?” She smiled at him. Naveen marveled at her ability to always be so cheerful.
“Can I get an orange juice, please?” He asked.
“Sure.” She nodded. “I’ll be back.”
She re-appeared, a little over five minutes later. “Here’s your orange juice, sir.”
Naveen gave her a big smile. “Thank you.” She was doing a good job, despite having to rush back and forth to respond to the demands of a full flight of passengers.
He checked his watch. Four hours to go. That would be enough time to catch up on a couple of movies he had missed. He relaxed and leaned back.
An hour before landing, the captain warned them of turbulence ahead. Naveen grinned in anticipation. The plane swayed as it passed through the air pocket. He felt his body bumped off the seat for a moment. This was like a bonus roller-coaster ride, no extra charge.
What a fun flight it had been. Maybe this was a sign of things to come. Maybe his new job would be challenging and exciting. Maybe his new colleagues would be friendly like the air-hostess and fun to work with. Maybe he was about to start an amazing phase of life.
I’m sure you have observed that exactly the same events happen in both the stories. Yet, the two stories sound so different.
It’s not the situation that matters; it’s our reaction to it. Our perception creates our reality. To alter this reality, we must simply change our perception.
In the first story, the annoyance, anger and apprehension that Naveen felt were real. In the second story, the empathy, wonder and excitement that Naveen felt were just as real. Even though the circumstances were the same, they could be experienced in different ways. All Naveen did was change the story he told himself, and he experienced an alternate reality.
In our daily lives, we constantly react to events. Whether we are aware of this or not, we tell ourselves stories about the situation around us.
Consider the following examples of stories we tell ourselves.
We miss the train to work. We tell ourselves “Damn it. Why can’t the train be delayed the one time I want it to be? Otherwise, it’s delayed so often. Now, I’ll be late for the meeting. Waiting at this platform is such a waste of time.”
The boss at work always gives us the difficult projects. We tell ourselves “My boss deliberately gives me all the hard assignments. He doesn’t even come around to see how I’m doing, like he does with the others. He doesn’t give a damn about me. He just uses me for all the dirty work.”
Our good friend doesn’t respond to our phone call. We tell ourselves “He is always too busy to pick up my calls. Just because he earns more money, he thinks that he is better than me. What an arrogant prick.”
Now, let’s change these stories we tell ourselves, keeping the situations the same.
We miss the train to work. We tell ourselves “Now that the crowd has gone in this train, the next one might be half vacant. I’ll probably get a place to sit. I have ten extra minutes to read my email and plan what I’m going to talk about in the meeting.”
The boss at work always gives us the difficult projects. We tell ourselves “The most challenging work normally goes to the most competent person. My boss thinks I’m capable of handling the tough projects. In fact, he trusts me so much that he doesn’t need to check up on me like he does with the others. I’m lucky to have earned his respect and trust.”
Our good friend doesn’t respond to our phone call. We tell ourselves “He has been working very hard. He will surely get promoted next month. I’ll be so happy for him. Then, our group of friends can get together and celebrate. It will be so much fun. I wish him good luck.”
If you find yourself reacting negatively to any situation, remember that the reality you are experiencing is only one of the possible realities. To change your experience, change the story you tell yourself.
Story 1:
Naveen shifted in his aisle seat. He wondered why airplanes had such cramped seats. His legs were too long for the narrow space. He felt stiff.
He glanced to his left. An enormous bulk of a middle-aged lady slumped in the next seat. Flesh dangled along her wide arms. Her body bulged outward like an inflated balloon. Naveen found himself being pushed towards the edge of his seat.
“Great, just fucking great.” Naveen muttered under his breath. How did these people get so huge? Were they just too lazy to exercise and too dumb to pay attention to their diet?
Naveen rang the bell for the air-hostess. The fat lady snored loudly in her sleep. He shook his head. Five minutes passed and still no sign of the air-hostess. He pushed the bell again. He craned his neck and saw the air-hostess approaching in her blue uniform with the tight skirt. She didn’t have the legs to pull off that skirt.
“Yes, sir?” She smiled at him. It was a fake smile.
“Can I get an orange juice?” Naveen demanded.
“Sure.” She nodded. “I’ll be back.”
Five minutes later, she still hadn’t returned. Naveen gritted his teeth.
Finally, she re-appeared. “Here’s your orange juice, sir.”
“What took you so long?” Naveen grabbed the glass. “The service on this flight is slow.”
“I’m very sorry, sir. We have a full flight. I had lots of passenger requests.” She smiled.
Naveen waved her off. He checked his watch. Still four hours to go. How was he going to get through this agonizing flight?
An hour before landing, Naveen twisted about, cranky as ever. The captain warned them of turbulence ahead. Naveen gripped the side of his seat. The plane swayed as it passed through the air pocket. He felt his body bumped off the seat for a moment.
What a disaster this flight had been. They didn’t even get the aircraft to fly smoothly. Maybe this was a sign of things to come. Maybe his new job would be full of turbulence and turmoil. Maybe his new colleagues would be dumb or non-responsive like the air-hostess. Maybe the whole thing was a mistake.
****
Story 2:
Naveen shifted in his aisle seat. His stretched his legs out as far as he could and made himself comfortable. He felt lucky to have gotten the aisle seat.
He glanced to his left. The lady next to him suffered from obesity. It had become an epidemic in America. He knew she was fighting a tough battle. He silently wished her luck.
He rang the bell for the air-hostess. The lady next to him snored loudly in her sleep. Naveen smiled. At least she managed to sleep so peacefully. Good for her.
Five minutes later, the air-hostess appeared in her blue uniform. She managed to look dignified in her skirt.
“Yes, sir?” She smiled at him. Naveen marveled at her ability to always be so cheerful.
“Can I get an orange juice, please?” He asked.
“Sure.” She nodded. “I’ll be back.”
She re-appeared, a little over five minutes later. “Here’s your orange juice, sir.”
Naveen gave her a big smile. “Thank you.” She was doing a good job, despite having to rush back and forth to respond to the demands of a full flight of passengers.
He checked his watch. Four hours to go. That would be enough time to catch up on a couple of movies he had missed. He relaxed and leaned back.
An hour before landing, the captain warned them of turbulence ahead. Naveen grinned in anticipation. The plane swayed as it passed through the air pocket. He felt his body bumped off the seat for a moment. This was like a bonus roller-coaster ride, no extra charge.
What a fun flight it had been. Maybe this was a sign of things to come. Maybe his new job would be challenging and exciting. Maybe his new colleagues would be friendly like the air-hostess and fun to work with. Maybe he was about to start an amazing phase of life.
****
I’m sure you have observed that exactly the same events happen in both the stories. Yet, the two stories sound so different.
It’s not the situation that matters; it’s our reaction to it. Our perception creates our reality. To alter this reality, we must simply change our perception.
In the first story, the annoyance, anger and apprehension that Naveen felt were real. In the second story, the empathy, wonder and excitement that Naveen felt were just as real. Even though the circumstances were the same, they could be experienced in different ways. All Naveen did was change the story he told himself, and he experienced an alternate reality.
In our daily lives, we constantly react to events. Whether we are aware of this or not, we tell ourselves stories about the situation around us.
Consider the following examples of stories we tell ourselves.
We miss the train to work. We tell ourselves “Damn it. Why can’t the train be delayed the one time I want it to be? Otherwise, it’s delayed so often. Now, I’ll be late for the meeting. Waiting at this platform is such a waste of time.”
The boss at work always gives us the difficult projects. We tell ourselves “My boss deliberately gives me all the hard assignments. He doesn’t even come around to see how I’m doing, like he does with the others. He doesn’t give a damn about me. He just uses me for all the dirty work.”
Our good friend doesn’t respond to our phone call. We tell ourselves “He is always too busy to pick up my calls. Just because he earns more money, he thinks that he is better than me. What an arrogant prick.”
Now, let’s change these stories we tell ourselves, keeping the situations the same.
We miss the train to work. We tell ourselves “Now that the crowd has gone in this train, the next one might be half vacant. I’ll probably get a place to sit. I have ten extra minutes to read my email and plan what I’m going to talk about in the meeting.”
The boss at work always gives us the difficult projects. We tell ourselves “The most challenging work normally goes to the most competent person. My boss thinks I’m capable of handling the tough projects. In fact, he trusts me so much that he doesn’t need to check up on me like he does with the others. I’m lucky to have earned his respect and trust.”
Our good friend doesn’t respond to our phone call. We tell ourselves “He has been working very hard. He will surely get promoted next month. I’ll be so happy for him. Then, our group of friends can get together and celebrate. It will be so much fun. I wish him good luck.”
If you find yourself reacting negatively to any situation, remember that the reality you are experiencing is only one of the possible realities. To change your experience, change the story you tell yourself.
Be Practical
My cousin Bharat studies at the same law college his father went to. He hates it. He loves to draw. His desk drawers are full of sketches depicting people, actions, scenery. Whenever he gets time away from his voluminous law textbooks, which frankly seem more suitable to be used as dumbbells to build biceps, he takes his pencils and pad and lets his imagination run wild.
I’ve seen Bharat draw. His eyes light up, his complexion changes, he becomes lost in his work, oblivious of the world around him.
In his second year as a law student, he narrowly passed the exams. His mother saw the results and went berserk.
“What is this, ha Bharat? What are these results?” She shrieked.
Bharat sat down. He made no attempt to reply.
“Is this why we paid so much money for your college, ha? Tell me?” She flung the result sheet at him. No words came out of his mouth.
“What will people think of you? Are your friends nearly failing too? Are you in some bad company? Say something.” She moved closer and raised her voice to a fever pitch.
“I’m not in bad company, mom.” Bharat’s voice was just above a whisper.
“Then, what is it?” She shouted in his face. “What’s your problem?”
“I don’t like law, mom.” Bharat whimpered. “I just don’t understand it. I like to draw.”
“Draw? These drawings are all rubbish.”
“But mom...”
“No buts. You have to buck up and study harder. I don’t want to see results like this ever again from you. Do you understand?”
Bharat took a deep breath. “Mom, there are colleges that have drawing classes. If I can...”
“Stop that nonsense. Bharat, why can’t you understand that you need to have a real career and get a proper job after college? You can draw for fun, but you have to concentrate on your studies, okay? You have to be practical.”
Bharat was left desolate, resigned to law books that seemed like Greek to him and a course curriculum that he couldn’t make head or tail of.
When I learned of my cousin’s dilemma, I was appalled. But, Bharat’s case is far from unique. Majority of students in colleges are there because they think they need a proper job, or because it is what their parents did.
I have always disliked the expression ‘Be Practical’.
What if Leonardo Da Vinci and Pablo Picasso had been told to stop their useless painting and be practical? What if Roger Federer and Sachin Tendulkar had been told to stop wasting their time playing sports and get a real job? What if John Lennon and R.D. Burman had been told to stop making music and concentrate on their studies? What a loss it would have been to the world if these legends had not pursued their passions.
But no, we must Be Practical, right? We must get a real career, a real job.
When I hear about cases like Bharat’s, I get the image of a horse being held back by the reins and directed where to ride, when the horse just wants to run wild and free into the meadows with no pre-ordained destination. Just like Bharat is held back by the reins of practicality when all he wants to do is to draw and have fun.
Why can’t we let the reins go? Why can’t we let people like Bharat be free to do what they enjoy? Why can’t we let ourselves be free to follow our own passion?
When people say ‘Be Practical’, what they mean is ‘Earn Money’, isn’t it? Is the sole purpose of our life to create and accumulate wealth?
I think it is an unreasonable requirement that society imposes on us to earn money. What is money anyways? It’s not even a real thing. It’s not a virtue of a human being like courage or compassion. In the history of mankind, money is a recent invention. Only few thousands of years ago did men print some numbers on paper and call it money. Before money existed, people exchanged goods and offered a service of value to others in return for what they needed.
Maybe we can aspire to do the same thing. Maybe we can offer something of value to the world. To produce anything of value, we must do what we enjoy doing.
If we follow the trail of money, we will be slaves forever. We will do whatever money demands, not what we want to. All our decisions will be dictated by financial considerations. We will be trapped in a prison that we cannot see or touch, a prison for our minds.
Investment advisors often use this term ‘financial freedom’. What they mean is that they will manage our money efficiently so that we will be able to buy what we want. By making sound investments, they will provide us with financial freedom. Meaning we won’t have to worry about money anymore. Money will be out of the equation.
The problem with this promise is that when people can buy what they want, like a house or a car, they want more such things. They get sucked into this vortex and never come out. No amount of money is enough money. There is always a hunger for more. This continues in a lifelong, elusive quest that people get stuck on.
There is a more direct path to financial freedom. Just stop worrying about money. Take money out of the equation. Grant yourself the freedom to do what your heart tells you.
I’m under no illusion. I know this is no easy ride. We have to overcome our inner self-doubt and fear of an uncertain future. We have to face a parade of voices of our friends and family that chant ‘Be Practical, Be Practical, Don’t be foolish, Be Practical.’
It will take courage. We have to let go off our own attachments and fears, get past the chants of society. Once we do this, we will experience a sense of freedom and lightness. With the shackles of dogma removed, we will be free at last to find our passions and fulfill our unrealized potential. Renowned mythologist Joseph Campbell said ‘Follow your bliss and doors will open where previously there were only walls’
When King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table went after the Holy Grail, they decided to split up. Each Knight would enter the forest at a point that he himself had chosen, a point where there was no path. If there was a path, then it was somebody else’s path.
This is our life. We must create our own paths, not walk on the well-trodden ones. We must trust that it will all work out. We will produce something of value, and success will follow. Yes, this takes a leap of faith. But once we make that jump, we will not look back.
I dislike the principle of ‘Be Practical’ so much that if I ever do something that everyone thinks is ‘not practical’ then I feel delighted. Then I know that I’m on the right track, doing something of my own free will that disregards the dark forces of practicality.
When I’m seventy years old and I look back on my life, if I find that I never did anything considered not practical, I will be bitterly disappointed. If I only did reasonable and acceptable things, then I didn’t do much.
What about you? Are you resigned to the banal existence of a practical life? Have you done anything in tune with your heart’s desires? Your time in this world is limited. Now is the time to set yourself free and follow your passion. Now or never.
I’ve seen Bharat draw. His eyes light up, his complexion changes, he becomes lost in his work, oblivious of the world around him.
In his second year as a law student, he narrowly passed the exams. His mother saw the results and went berserk.
“What is this, ha Bharat? What are these results?” She shrieked.
Bharat sat down. He made no attempt to reply.
“Is this why we paid so much money for your college, ha? Tell me?” She flung the result sheet at him. No words came out of his mouth.
“What will people think of you? Are your friends nearly failing too? Are you in some bad company? Say something.” She moved closer and raised her voice to a fever pitch.
“I’m not in bad company, mom.” Bharat’s voice was just above a whisper.
“Then, what is it?” She shouted in his face. “What’s your problem?”
“I don’t like law, mom.” Bharat whimpered. “I just don’t understand it. I like to draw.”
“Draw? These drawings are all rubbish.”
“But mom...”
“No buts. You have to buck up and study harder. I don’t want to see results like this ever again from you. Do you understand?”
Bharat took a deep breath. “Mom, there are colleges that have drawing classes. If I can...”
“Stop that nonsense. Bharat, why can’t you understand that you need to have a real career and get a proper job after college? You can draw for fun, but you have to concentrate on your studies, okay? You have to be practical.”
Bharat was left desolate, resigned to law books that seemed like Greek to him and a course curriculum that he couldn’t make head or tail of.
When I learned of my cousin’s dilemma, I was appalled. But, Bharat’s case is far from unique. Majority of students in colleges are there because they think they need a proper job, or because it is what their parents did.
I have always disliked the expression ‘Be Practical’.
What if Leonardo Da Vinci and Pablo Picasso had been told to stop their useless painting and be practical? What if Roger Federer and Sachin Tendulkar had been told to stop wasting their time playing sports and get a real job? What if John Lennon and R.D. Burman had been told to stop making music and concentrate on their studies? What a loss it would have been to the world if these legends had not pursued their passions.
But no, we must Be Practical, right? We must get a real career, a real job.
When I hear about cases like Bharat’s, I get the image of a horse being held back by the reins and directed where to ride, when the horse just wants to run wild and free into the meadows with no pre-ordained destination. Just like Bharat is held back by the reins of practicality when all he wants to do is to draw and have fun.
Why can’t we let the reins go? Why can’t we let people like Bharat be free to do what they enjoy? Why can’t we let ourselves be free to follow our own passion?
When people say ‘Be Practical’, what they mean is ‘Earn Money’, isn’t it? Is the sole purpose of our life to create and accumulate wealth?
I think it is an unreasonable requirement that society imposes on us to earn money. What is money anyways? It’s not even a real thing. It’s not a virtue of a human being like courage or compassion. In the history of mankind, money is a recent invention. Only few thousands of years ago did men print some numbers on paper and call it money. Before money existed, people exchanged goods and offered a service of value to others in return for what they needed.
Maybe we can aspire to do the same thing. Maybe we can offer something of value to the world. To produce anything of value, we must do what we enjoy doing.
If we follow the trail of money, we will be slaves forever. We will do whatever money demands, not what we want to. All our decisions will be dictated by financial considerations. We will be trapped in a prison that we cannot see or touch, a prison for our minds.
Investment advisors often use this term ‘financial freedom’. What they mean is that they will manage our money efficiently so that we will be able to buy what we want. By making sound investments, they will provide us with financial freedom. Meaning we won’t have to worry about money anymore. Money will be out of the equation.
The problem with this promise is that when people can buy what they want, like a house or a car, they want more such things. They get sucked into this vortex and never come out. No amount of money is enough money. There is always a hunger for more. This continues in a lifelong, elusive quest that people get stuck on.
There is a more direct path to financial freedom. Just stop worrying about money. Take money out of the equation. Grant yourself the freedom to do what your heart tells you.
I’m under no illusion. I know this is no easy ride. We have to overcome our inner self-doubt and fear of an uncertain future. We have to face a parade of voices of our friends and family that chant ‘Be Practical, Be Practical, Don’t be foolish, Be Practical.’
It will take courage. We have to let go off our own attachments and fears, get past the chants of society. Once we do this, we will experience a sense of freedom and lightness. With the shackles of dogma removed, we will be free at last to find our passions and fulfill our unrealized potential. Renowned mythologist Joseph Campbell said ‘Follow your bliss and doors will open where previously there were only walls’
When King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table went after the Holy Grail, they decided to split up. Each Knight would enter the forest at a point that he himself had chosen, a point where there was no path. If there was a path, then it was somebody else’s path.
This is our life. We must create our own paths, not walk on the well-trodden ones. We must trust that it will all work out. We will produce something of value, and success will follow. Yes, this takes a leap of faith. But once we make that jump, we will not look back.
I dislike the principle of ‘Be Practical’ so much that if I ever do something that everyone thinks is ‘not practical’ then I feel delighted. Then I know that I’m on the right track, doing something of my own free will that disregards the dark forces of practicality.
When I’m seventy years old and I look back on my life, if I find that I never did anything considered not practical, I will be bitterly disappointed. If I only did reasonable and acceptable things, then I didn’t do much.
What about you? Are you resigned to the banal existence of a practical life? Have you done anything in tune with your heart’s desires? Your time in this world is limited. Now is the time to set yourself free and follow your passion. Now or never.
Practice Happiness
Vivek shoved open the front door to his home. His head hung low, his shoulders drooped. His body was dripping wet from head to toe. It had been the worst imaginable day. First, he had been fired from his job. By afternoon, his things were packed up and he had been escorted out of the building in shame. To make matters worse, he found his car had been stolen. After reporting the theft, he started to walk home when the clouds burst open and unleashed a rain storm. As his body got drenched, his mind was consumed with a relentless swirl of painful emotions. He felt sick in the pit of his stomach.
As he stepped inside the living room, Tanya, his ten-year old niece ran up to him. She smiled gleefully and hugged his leg.
She looked up at him with soft eyes, “Will you play with me?”
Now, this is Vivek’s test, his moment of truth. Will he shoo his niece away, go to his room and continue to stay upset about his disastrous day? Or will he, despite his personal crisis, return Tanya’s hug and smile, and spend time playing with her?
Each of us faces similar tests every day. This example introduces the premise of this piece, which is about the art of practicing happiness. Anyone can be happy when things are going well, but it is an art form to be happy when circumstances are not the way we wish them to be.
Think about all the things you want in life. It may be to have a fulfilling career, to earn a lot of money, to find a perfect relationship, to keep a healthy body, and so on. If we examine these goals more closely, we will see that we want these things because we believe they will make us happy. Thus, happiness is the goal of all goals, the thing that underlies all our other desires. Everything we do revolves around the pursuit of happiness. The career, the money, the relationships, the health are all ways we think will lead us to happiness.
So, if we agree that happiness is the central goal that drives us all, then the question arises what is happiness and how do we get it? Most people equate happiness with feeling good. In our daily life, our emotions are driven by events that happen. If we get that job offer, we feel excited, otherwise we feel disappointed. If our dream girl says yes to us, we feel delighted, but if the response is negative, then we feel dejected. This sort of conditional happiness is circumstantial and fleeting. Even if we get exactly what we wanted, we only feel good for a while and then the feeling passes. It is an elusive, never-ending pleasure-seeking quest that we get stuck on.
I would like to suggest that happiness is not merely feeling good based on some circumstance that is transient. Happiness is the ability developed over time to radiate positive energy regardless of our external circumstances or internal emotions. It is a skill that we can train ourselves to develop.
I once attended a talk given by a spiritual master. During the Q & A session at the end, I asked him this: How do we make ourselves happy when everything is going wrong and we feel sad or angry inside?
His answer was simple: We cannot force ourselves to feel happy at any time. Feelings change all the time and are not under our direct control. The only thing in our control is our actions. We cannot will ourselves to feel happy, but we can will ourselves to smile, to laugh, to act happy. Research shows that when people are happy, they smile and laugh a lot, which is obvious. But, research also shows that when people smile and laugh a lot, they become happy. We must act happy and the feeling will follow.
This isn’t to say that we should deny or suppress our feelings. We should fully acknowledge what emotional states we are experiencing. Then, we should let these feelings be, and radiate positive energy anyways. Much like the soldier acts courageous as he picks up his fallen comrade and carries him across the battlefield, despite feeling terrified inside. Much like the shy young boy walks across the dance floor and acts confident as he asks a girl to dance, despite feeling nervous inside.
In the opening example, Vivek can hug and play with Tanya, while still being aware of his disappointment at losing his job and his car. He can take the necessary actions to get a new job and subsequently a new car later. But at that moment, he can still act as though he is happy, despite his emotions. This is the only unconditional, lasting happiness that is fully within our capacity to achieve.
This ability to act happy, to radiate positive energy can be difficult at times. Just like any other skill, like swimming or driving or cooking, it takes time and practice to learn. We can start to practice happiness by a simple exercise: At random times during the day, stop and ask yourself: Am I radiating positive energy? Take a few deep breaths and slow things down. Acknowledge your current thoughts and emotions. Let go of them. Then, act happy. Smile. Laugh, if you can think of something funny. Better yet, make others laugh with you.
The best thing about happiness is that it is contagious. When we smile and laugh, others around us tend to get infected and join in. Happiness passes from person to person more rapidly than any other condition.
To act happy is to do whatever it is that we would do if we were feeling happy. Smiling and laughing are two common behaviors. Other behaviors to indicate happiness include singing a song, or dancing or eating or playing or talking non-stop. To practice happiness, we must behave in a manner as if we were happy, after being aware of what we feel at that moment.
For me, the best way to practice happiness is to develop a sense of humor. I think that all living beings no matter how big or small, good-looking or ugly, intelligent or dumb, basically just want to laugh. When people laugh, they are closest to their natural selves. A person who has the ability to laugh at anything, especially at himself, never ceases to be amused. When we watch comedy movies and the protagonists get into all kinds of sticky situations, we find it funny. We would benefit a lot if we manage to look at our own lives as just a movie. And when trouble comes, we should see the funny side, and laugh at ourselves and at the situation we find ourselves in. I believe laughter is the key that unlocks the door to happiness.
Another way to think about this is say you knew that you had a terminal illness and had little time left to live. Would you waste precious time feeling angry or sad or would you enjoy what time you have left? Well, the fact is that you do have a terminal condition. We all do. It’s called birth. And we have limited time left in this world. We must enjoy every moment of it.
Happiness is a moment-to-moment practice. Life is a series of moments. At every moment, we have the potential to radiate positive energy into the world. Happiness is not something we get from life, but something we bring to life. So, be happy now, without reason.
As he stepped inside the living room, Tanya, his ten-year old niece ran up to him. She smiled gleefully and hugged his leg.
She looked up at him with soft eyes, “Will you play with me?”
Now, this is Vivek’s test, his moment of truth. Will he shoo his niece away, go to his room and continue to stay upset about his disastrous day? Or will he, despite his personal crisis, return Tanya’s hug and smile, and spend time playing with her?
Each of us faces similar tests every day. This example introduces the premise of this piece, which is about the art of practicing happiness. Anyone can be happy when things are going well, but it is an art form to be happy when circumstances are not the way we wish them to be.
Think about all the things you want in life. It may be to have a fulfilling career, to earn a lot of money, to find a perfect relationship, to keep a healthy body, and so on. If we examine these goals more closely, we will see that we want these things because we believe they will make us happy. Thus, happiness is the goal of all goals, the thing that underlies all our other desires. Everything we do revolves around the pursuit of happiness. The career, the money, the relationships, the health are all ways we think will lead us to happiness.
So, if we agree that happiness is the central goal that drives us all, then the question arises what is happiness and how do we get it? Most people equate happiness with feeling good. In our daily life, our emotions are driven by events that happen. If we get that job offer, we feel excited, otherwise we feel disappointed. If our dream girl says yes to us, we feel delighted, but if the response is negative, then we feel dejected. This sort of conditional happiness is circumstantial and fleeting. Even if we get exactly what we wanted, we only feel good for a while and then the feeling passes. It is an elusive, never-ending pleasure-seeking quest that we get stuck on.
I would like to suggest that happiness is not merely feeling good based on some circumstance that is transient. Happiness is the ability developed over time to radiate positive energy regardless of our external circumstances or internal emotions. It is a skill that we can train ourselves to develop.
I once attended a talk given by a spiritual master. During the Q & A session at the end, I asked him this: How do we make ourselves happy when everything is going wrong and we feel sad or angry inside?
His answer was simple: We cannot force ourselves to feel happy at any time. Feelings change all the time and are not under our direct control. The only thing in our control is our actions. We cannot will ourselves to feel happy, but we can will ourselves to smile, to laugh, to act happy. Research shows that when people are happy, they smile and laugh a lot, which is obvious. But, research also shows that when people smile and laugh a lot, they become happy. We must act happy and the feeling will follow.
This isn’t to say that we should deny or suppress our feelings. We should fully acknowledge what emotional states we are experiencing. Then, we should let these feelings be, and radiate positive energy anyways. Much like the soldier acts courageous as he picks up his fallen comrade and carries him across the battlefield, despite feeling terrified inside. Much like the shy young boy walks across the dance floor and acts confident as he asks a girl to dance, despite feeling nervous inside.
In the opening example, Vivek can hug and play with Tanya, while still being aware of his disappointment at losing his job and his car. He can take the necessary actions to get a new job and subsequently a new car later. But at that moment, he can still act as though he is happy, despite his emotions. This is the only unconditional, lasting happiness that is fully within our capacity to achieve.
This ability to act happy, to radiate positive energy can be difficult at times. Just like any other skill, like swimming or driving or cooking, it takes time and practice to learn. We can start to practice happiness by a simple exercise: At random times during the day, stop and ask yourself: Am I radiating positive energy? Take a few deep breaths and slow things down. Acknowledge your current thoughts and emotions. Let go of them. Then, act happy. Smile. Laugh, if you can think of something funny. Better yet, make others laugh with you.
The best thing about happiness is that it is contagious. When we smile and laugh, others around us tend to get infected and join in. Happiness passes from person to person more rapidly than any other condition.
To act happy is to do whatever it is that we would do if we were feeling happy. Smiling and laughing are two common behaviors. Other behaviors to indicate happiness include singing a song, or dancing or eating or playing or talking non-stop. To practice happiness, we must behave in a manner as if we were happy, after being aware of what we feel at that moment.
For me, the best way to practice happiness is to develop a sense of humor. I think that all living beings no matter how big or small, good-looking or ugly, intelligent or dumb, basically just want to laugh. When people laugh, they are closest to their natural selves. A person who has the ability to laugh at anything, especially at himself, never ceases to be amused. When we watch comedy movies and the protagonists get into all kinds of sticky situations, we find it funny. We would benefit a lot if we manage to look at our own lives as just a movie. And when trouble comes, we should see the funny side, and laugh at ourselves and at the situation we find ourselves in. I believe laughter is the key that unlocks the door to happiness.
Another way to think about this is say you knew that you had a terminal illness and had little time left to live. Would you waste precious time feeling angry or sad or would you enjoy what time you have left? Well, the fact is that you do have a terminal condition. We all do. It’s called birth. And we have limited time left in this world. We must enjoy every moment of it.
Happiness is a moment-to-moment practice. Life is a series of moments. At every moment, we have the potential to radiate positive energy into the world. Happiness is not something we get from life, but something we bring to life. So, be happy now, without reason.
The Airport Interview
“Jack, this is where we first met.” Kate Winslet reminded Leonardo Di Caprio soon after their ship had crashed into an iceberg, up on the large projector screen. Jatin watched with rapt attention, even though he had seen Titanic twice before. An empty classroom with a projector at the university campus was a great place for an evening movie.
His friend, Swati, glanced across. “I can’t believe you like these cheesy love stories.”
He didn’t respond. His eyes stayed riveted on the screen, as the protagonists struggled through waves of water on board their ship.
Swati nudged him. “You’re a bit of a girl, you know that Jatin?”
“Yeah whatever,” He said. “And you’re a bit of a boy. Now, watch the movie.”
“C’mon, you know what happens. It’s Titanic. The ship sinks.” She rebuked.
He nodded, hoping she would shut up.
“What time is your flight?” She showed no inclination to stay quiet.
“Ha? It’s at eleven thirty or something.”
“It’s already nine. Shouldn’t you be leaving?”
“Yeah, after the movie.”
Swati shook her head. “You and your stupid movie. You have a big interview with Mckinsey, and you’re sitting and drooling over Kate Winslet. Have you at least packed?”
“Yeah, I’m done packing. I borrowed your suitcase, remember? I left it at your place before coming here.”
“Right,” She said. “I’m hungry, I’m going to eat. You watch your movie. My roommate will be home, so you can take the bag when you leave.”
He nodded, still looking at the screen.
She rolled her eyes. “Okay, good luck with the interview.”
Jatin saw the rest of the movie in peace. When it was over, he yawned, stretched himself and turned off the projector. He checked his watch. It was nearly ten.
“Fuck.” He muttered. He dashed out of the building, and jogged along the icy road. They were into their fourth semester of graduate studies at the University of Pittsburg. By then, Jatin knew most of the campus roads well. Within few minutes, he was at Swati’s house.
He didn’t waste time making polite conversation with the roommate, Rachna, who had an annoying, high-pitched voice. He rang the doorbell, said he was there for Swati’s bag, grabbed the black suitcase on the living room floor and fled.
Half an hour later, he stood in the security check line at the airport, boarding pass in hand. Fifty minutes left for his flight. He put on his iPod.
“I have become…comfortably numb” He hummed the lyrics. Soon, he reached the front of the line. He frowned, having to interrupt his favorite song to put the iPod along with his suitcase through the scanner.
“Where you flying to?” A voice asked.
Jatin stared at the scanner belt, awaiting his iPod, eager to resume his song.
“Excuse me.” A voice called. He looked up.
“Yes, you. Please step aside.” The man in front of him wore a crimson uniform. He stood six-feet tall, the same height as Jatin. However unlike Jatin’s lean frame, his mid-section revealed a bulging beer-belly. The majority of his face was covered with a thick beard. Jatin followed him to a small table on which he saw his suitcase.
“Where you going?” The man asked.
“Chicago.”
“What’s your name?”
“Jatin.”
“Justin?”
“No, it’s Jatin.”
The officer glared at him, stroking his beard. “This is a random security check. Please lift your arms up.”
Jatin obeyed. The officer groped his body from top to bottom. His hands felt rough as though they had been used for years of manual labor.
Satisfied, the officer stepped back. “Have you packed this bag yourself?”
“Yes.”
“Are you carrying any items from anyone else?”
“No.”
“Okay, what’s in this bag?”
Jatin put a hand on his chin. “Umm…A laptop…”
“Which brand?”
“Dell.” Jatin paused. “Also, some clothes…”
“What clothes? Be specific about everything.”
“A black suit for my interview, a couple of t-shirts, jeans, socks and underwear.”
Jatin looked at the officer, who stared back at him, without blinking. “Then, I have some chocolate cookies, and a Computer Networks book. That’s about it.”
The officer continued to gaze at him. “Nothing else?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“No perfumes or make-up?”
Jatin raised his eyebrows. “Make-up? No.”
The officer folded his arms. “Almost everything you identified is wrong.”
“Ha? What?”
“This bag is filled with women’s clothes. There are some tops, jeans, bras. There are perfumes, lipsticks and other make-up stuff. There is a book, but it’s a Stephen King novel. There is a laptop, but it’s a Toshiba.”
Jatin felt as though his ship had crashed into an iceberg. Waves flooded all around him. He places his hand on the table to keep balanced.
“What do you have to say for yourself, Justin?” The officer opened the suitcase and displayed the items.
Jatin stared at the clothes, the lipsticks, the variety of perfumes. A fruity scent emanated from the suitcase. Only a girl’s bag could have such an aroma.
“I…umm….this is…” He searched for words.
“What kind of scam are you pulling?” The officer asked.
“No scam, sir. Really.” Jatin said. “I don’t know where all this stuff came from.” He looked at the contents again, and rubbed his eyes. The silver Toshiba laptop came into focus.
“Aha,” He snapped his fingers. “Swati’s roommate.”
“What the hell are you jabbering about?” The officer demanded.
“I think I accidentally picked up someone else’s bag.” Jatin explained. “I had borrowed this bag from a friend, but I think her roommate has a similar black suitcase.”
“Do you expect me to believe this bullshit?” The officer had a half-smile.
“It’s true. I can call her up right now.” Jatin said. “You can talk to her, if you like.”
After more debate, the officer consulted his peers, and decided that the girl whose bag Jatin claimed it was, should come to the airport and identify those belongings as hers. Only then would they let him go.
He called Swati first, and took her roommate’s number.
“Hello?” A sleepy voice answered after seven rings.
“Is that Rachna? This is Jatin, Swati’s friend. I had come by earlier to take a suitcase. Actually, I think I took your suitcase by mistake.” He became aware that he was talking at the speed of light.
“Ha? Are you drunk or something?”
“No, I’m not drunk, I’m serious. I need you to come to the airport to identify your stuff.”
“Airport? Look, I don’t time for this. I have an early morning class. I’m going back to sleep.” There was a click and the line went dead.
“Fuck.” Jatin cursed. He hit redial on his phone.
This time, there were nine rings. “What?”
“Listen, Rachna, its Jatin again. I really need your help. Please listen.”
He heard nothing in response, so he went on. “If you check your living room, you will see that Swati’s suitcase will still be there and yours will be missing.”
“Hold on.” Rachna went away for a minute. “You’re right. I had packed for my weekend trip. Where did you run away with my suitcase?”
“To the airport. I thought it was Swati’s.”
“What an idiot. My bag is Delsey, and hers is American Tourister.” Her voice rose to a shriek. Jatin had to move the phone away from his ear.
“Umm…they were both black…I’m sorry.”
“I can’t believe this…”
“Listen, it doesn’t matter. What’s done is done. I have been detained at security. Please can you reach the airport to identify your bag and your things?”
She let out a long breath. “Fine.”
“Thanks, please hurry. Also, can you bring along Swati’s suitcase?”
The line went dead.
“Fuck.” Jatin said again. Damn that Rachna. He hoped she would bring the bag. What kind of person packed her suitcase by Wednesday for a weekend trip? He shook his head. He checked his watch and found that there was half an hour to go for his flight’s departure. He paced up and down.
Twenty long minutes later, Rachna arrived at the security line. Jatin breathed a sigh of relief when he saw her carrying a black American Tourister bag. Her eyes widened when she saw her clothes spread on the table. She scowled at him.
“Can you show me some ID?” The officer demanded. She obliged.
“Now, look at all this and identify if it’s yours.”
She looked through the contents. “It’s all mine.”
Several more questions followed. After what seemed like an eternity, the officer relented. “Next time, bring your own damn bag.” He waved Jatin off.
Rachna collected her bag, and rushed off.
“Hey Rachna,” Jatin called after her. “Thanks for coming here. And sorry again.”
“I’ll be late for my morning class now.” She shouted, without looking back.
Jatin scrambled to his gate. Five minutes past flight time. He looked around. The area was deserted. There were no passengers. He went to the lady at the counter.
“What happened to the flight to Chicago?”
“Oh yes, the flight to Chicago.” The lady smiled. “It’s gone. We had an early departure.”
“Early departure? What kind of airline is this?” He clenched his fist. Why couldn’t he get a delayed flight, like in a normal airline?
“Excuse me?”
“Nothing. I guess I missed it. Can you get me on another flight?”
She tapped some keys in front of a computer screen. “The next flight is at four. But it goes via New York, with a two hour layover. It will reach Chicago by nine tomorrow morning.”
“Nothing that reaches before that?” His interview was scheduled at nine thirty.
“No, that’s the best we can do.”
“Fine, I’ll take it then.”
He reached New York without further incident. The JFK airport teemed with people who rushed from one gate to another. He decided to take a nap. When he woke, he had no idea how long he had slept.
“Delayed again, damn it.” The man sitting in front of him said.
Jatin looked up at the digital display above the gate. His flight to Chicago had been delayed by five hours. He felt a knot tighten in his stomach. He stood up. “What’s going on? Why is it delayed?”
The man seated there smiled. “Look outside the window.”
Jatin swiveled around. He was greeted by a sea of white snow. It covered the planes, the ground below and everything else in sight. Soft white snowflakes poured down nonstop at oblique angles. He let out a low whistle.
“It’s a blizzard. No planes can take off.” The man said.
“Fuck.” Jatin said, for the umpteenth time in the last twelve hours. He called his contact at Mckinsey, and explained the situation. Ten minutes later, she called him back and said that the people who were scheduled to interview him weren’t available later. She suggested that he could do a phone interview. Reluctantly, he agreed and so it was setup for an hour later.
He selected a seat, as isolated as he could find, and put his bag down. He stood up and walked around in circle. A phone interview, he could have done from the comfort of his room. But now his job prospects at the country’s top consulting firm would be decided at the crowded JFK terminal.
An hour later, he planted himself down in the chair. Beads of sweat rolled down his forehead. He picked up the phone and called Mckinsey.
“Hello, I’m calling about my phone interview.”
“Yes, Justin, you’re early. We were about to call you. I’ll patch you through to your interviewer.”
Did she call him Justin? The security officer at Pittsburg had called him that. He dismissed the thought. How little had he slept? While he waited, he took a bottle of water and splashed some on his face.
“Hello, how are you doing?” A voice came on the line.
“I’m doing good, thanks.” His voice felt hoarse.
“You have a very impressive resume.”
“Yes…yes, thanks.” Jatin wondered which lines on his resume could have been classified as impressive.
“I see you have lots of experience in database design.”
“Okay.” He conceded. Did one class project count as ‘lots of experience’?
“So, you designed a scalable, distributed database. What kind of caching mechanisms did you use to ensure optimal performance?”
Jatin took a gulp of water. He scratched his head. He could only recall building a simple three-table database in his project. He had just googled some examples and modified them.
“Hello, are you there?” The voice asked.
“Yes, I’m here.”
“So, tell me what techniques did you use?”
“Umm…I just used SQL.” Jatin slapped his forehead. Stop saying obvious things.
“SQL? Yes, but I asked about the caching mechanism.”
“Err…umm…I can’t remember.”
“Okay, let’s move on. So, for the image processing software that you built, what algorithm did you use for face detection?”
Jatin removed his handkerchief and mopped his brow. He had dropped in on a Computer Graphics class and submitted one assignment, but nothing noteworthy. Could he have put this on his resume?
“Umm…face detection, yes….umm…I used the Kramer-Gellar algorithm.” The career counselor at his university had advised to always appear confident during interviews even when you have no idea what the answer is.
“Kramer-Gellar? I’m not familiar with that one.”
Jatin wasn’t familiar with it either, considering that he had just put together two names from his favorite television shows. “Umm…yes, it’s a new algorithm by two scientists in Norway.”
On the other side of the call, he heard a pencil scribble away on paper.
“Okay, so for the Network Intrusion Detection System that you architected, how did you guard against buffer overflow attacks?”
Jatin swallowed. He couldn’t remember having taken a Network Security class. “Can you repeat the question?”
“Yes, I asked about the Intrusion Detection. Can you talk about more that?”
“Fuck.” Jatin whispered under his breath. This interview had become a massacre.
“What was that?”
“Nothing, I’m sorry I am unable to hear clearly. There’s a lot of disturbance.” Jatin played a heavy metal song on his iPod and held the speaker close to the phone.
The interviewer raised his voice. “I asked about the Intrusion Detecti..”
Jatin increased the volume. “I still can’t hear.”
“The software for Intrusion Detection...”
Jatin’s face was covered in perspiration. His right foot shook back and forth. Suddenly, he pressed the red button on his phone and ended the call.
“Fuck.” He shouted out loud. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” He had prepared his resume two months back and couldn’t recall what kind of crap he had put on it.
His phone rang again. It was from Mckinsey.
With an unsteady hand, he answered the call. “He...Hello.”
“Hello, we are calling from Mckinsey with reference to a phone interview that was in progress. Can we resume the interview?”
“Alright...fine…go ahead.” Jatin said it as though someone had asked him for his left kidney.
The same interviewer came on the line. “Hello Justin, I’m sorry we got cut off. Now, what was I saying?”
Justin? Did he say Justin? This time he felt sure he had heard Justin.
“Excuse me, did you say Justin?”
“Yes.”
“Who is Justin?”
“What?” There was a pause at the other end. “Well, you are Justin, Justin Jones.”
“Really?”
“That’s what I have here. Justin Jones, PhD from Stanford, worked for three years at Oracle and four years at Microsoft.”
Jatin skipped up and clutched his hair. “What? I…umm…I never did all that..actually, my name is Jatin.”
“Jatin?” A sound of papers being ruffled. “Jatin you said? Well, who are you?”
“Ha? I’m a Master’s student at University of Pittsburg, applying for a junior consultant.”
“Hold on.” There was silence at the other end. Five minutes later, he came back on.
“There seems to be a misunderstanding. I was to interview a Justin Jones at the same time that you called up. The recruiter thought that you were Justin and patched you through.”
“Oh okay.” Jatin sat down and exhaled. “Actually, I had an interview scheduled today, but I’m stuck at New York airport.”
“Yes, I’m sorry about this. Your interview will be rescheduled next week.”
“Next week? But I’m already at New York, I have a flight to Chicago.”
“Yes, I’m very sorry for the inconvenience. Our company will pay for your flight back to Pittsburg of course. Also, to compensate, we will fly you down business class next week. The recruiter will call you with the details.”
“Okay.” Jatin said. It had been that kind of day.
“By the way, is there a Kramer-Gellar algorithm?”
“Umm…no, not really.” Jatin allowed himself a smile.
“Right.” And the line went dead.
The next day, Jatin was back at the University campus, narrating his experience to Swati, who couldn’t stop giggling. By the time he had finished the story, she rolled on the floor with laughter.
Swati looked at him. “You know what your new nick name will be, right?”
“Yeah.” Jatin stood and made his hands appear like a gun in a mock James Bond pose. “My name’s Jones, Justin Jones.”
His friend, Swati, glanced across. “I can’t believe you like these cheesy love stories.”
He didn’t respond. His eyes stayed riveted on the screen, as the protagonists struggled through waves of water on board their ship.
Swati nudged him. “You’re a bit of a girl, you know that Jatin?”
“Yeah whatever,” He said. “And you’re a bit of a boy. Now, watch the movie.”
“C’mon, you know what happens. It’s Titanic. The ship sinks.” She rebuked.
He nodded, hoping she would shut up.
“What time is your flight?” She showed no inclination to stay quiet.
“Ha? It’s at eleven thirty or something.”
“It’s already nine. Shouldn’t you be leaving?”
“Yeah, after the movie.”
Swati shook her head. “You and your stupid movie. You have a big interview with Mckinsey, and you’re sitting and drooling over Kate Winslet. Have you at least packed?”
“Yeah, I’m done packing. I borrowed your suitcase, remember? I left it at your place before coming here.”
“Right,” She said. “I’m hungry, I’m going to eat. You watch your movie. My roommate will be home, so you can take the bag when you leave.”
He nodded, still looking at the screen.
She rolled her eyes. “Okay, good luck with the interview.”
Jatin saw the rest of the movie in peace. When it was over, he yawned, stretched himself and turned off the projector. He checked his watch. It was nearly ten.
“Fuck.” He muttered. He dashed out of the building, and jogged along the icy road. They were into their fourth semester of graduate studies at the University of Pittsburg. By then, Jatin knew most of the campus roads well. Within few minutes, he was at Swati’s house.
He didn’t waste time making polite conversation with the roommate, Rachna, who had an annoying, high-pitched voice. He rang the doorbell, said he was there for Swati’s bag, grabbed the black suitcase on the living room floor and fled.
Half an hour later, he stood in the security check line at the airport, boarding pass in hand. Fifty minutes left for his flight. He put on his iPod.
“I have become…comfortably numb” He hummed the lyrics. Soon, he reached the front of the line. He frowned, having to interrupt his favorite song to put the iPod along with his suitcase through the scanner.
“Where you flying to?” A voice asked.
Jatin stared at the scanner belt, awaiting his iPod, eager to resume his song.
“Excuse me.” A voice called. He looked up.
“Yes, you. Please step aside.” The man in front of him wore a crimson uniform. He stood six-feet tall, the same height as Jatin. However unlike Jatin’s lean frame, his mid-section revealed a bulging beer-belly. The majority of his face was covered with a thick beard. Jatin followed him to a small table on which he saw his suitcase.
“Where you going?” The man asked.
“Chicago.”
“What’s your name?”
“Jatin.”
“Justin?”
“No, it’s Jatin.”
The officer glared at him, stroking his beard. “This is a random security check. Please lift your arms up.”
Jatin obeyed. The officer groped his body from top to bottom. His hands felt rough as though they had been used for years of manual labor.
Satisfied, the officer stepped back. “Have you packed this bag yourself?”
“Yes.”
“Are you carrying any items from anyone else?”
“No.”
“Okay, what’s in this bag?”
Jatin put a hand on his chin. “Umm…A laptop…”
“Which brand?”
“Dell.” Jatin paused. “Also, some clothes…”
“What clothes? Be specific about everything.”
“A black suit for my interview, a couple of t-shirts, jeans, socks and underwear.”
Jatin looked at the officer, who stared back at him, without blinking. “Then, I have some chocolate cookies, and a Computer Networks book. That’s about it.”
The officer continued to gaze at him. “Nothing else?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“No perfumes or make-up?”
Jatin raised his eyebrows. “Make-up? No.”
The officer folded his arms. “Almost everything you identified is wrong.”
“Ha? What?”
“This bag is filled with women’s clothes. There are some tops, jeans, bras. There are perfumes, lipsticks and other make-up stuff. There is a book, but it’s a Stephen King novel. There is a laptop, but it’s a Toshiba.”
Jatin felt as though his ship had crashed into an iceberg. Waves flooded all around him. He places his hand on the table to keep balanced.
“What do you have to say for yourself, Justin?” The officer opened the suitcase and displayed the items.
Jatin stared at the clothes, the lipsticks, the variety of perfumes. A fruity scent emanated from the suitcase. Only a girl’s bag could have such an aroma.
“I…umm….this is…” He searched for words.
“What kind of scam are you pulling?” The officer asked.
“No scam, sir. Really.” Jatin said. “I don’t know where all this stuff came from.” He looked at the contents again, and rubbed his eyes. The silver Toshiba laptop came into focus.
“Aha,” He snapped his fingers. “Swati’s roommate.”
“What the hell are you jabbering about?” The officer demanded.
“I think I accidentally picked up someone else’s bag.” Jatin explained. “I had borrowed this bag from a friend, but I think her roommate has a similar black suitcase.”
“Do you expect me to believe this bullshit?” The officer had a half-smile.
“It’s true. I can call her up right now.” Jatin said. “You can talk to her, if you like.”
After more debate, the officer consulted his peers, and decided that the girl whose bag Jatin claimed it was, should come to the airport and identify those belongings as hers. Only then would they let him go.
He called Swati first, and took her roommate’s number.
“Hello?” A sleepy voice answered after seven rings.
“Is that Rachna? This is Jatin, Swati’s friend. I had come by earlier to take a suitcase. Actually, I think I took your suitcase by mistake.” He became aware that he was talking at the speed of light.
“Ha? Are you drunk or something?”
“No, I’m not drunk, I’m serious. I need you to come to the airport to identify your stuff.”
“Airport? Look, I don’t time for this. I have an early morning class. I’m going back to sleep.” There was a click and the line went dead.
“Fuck.” Jatin cursed. He hit redial on his phone.
This time, there were nine rings. “What?”
“Listen, Rachna, its Jatin again. I really need your help. Please listen.”
He heard nothing in response, so he went on. “If you check your living room, you will see that Swati’s suitcase will still be there and yours will be missing.”
“Hold on.” Rachna went away for a minute. “You’re right. I had packed for my weekend trip. Where did you run away with my suitcase?”
“To the airport. I thought it was Swati’s.”
“What an idiot. My bag is Delsey, and hers is American Tourister.” Her voice rose to a shriek. Jatin had to move the phone away from his ear.
“Umm…they were both black…I’m sorry.”
“I can’t believe this…”
“Listen, it doesn’t matter. What’s done is done. I have been detained at security. Please can you reach the airport to identify your bag and your things?”
She let out a long breath. “Fine.”
“Thanks, please hurry. Also, can you bring along Swati’s suitcase?”
The line went dead.
“Fuck.” Jatin said again. Damn that Rachna. He hoped she would bring the bag. What kind of person packed her suitcase by Wednesday for a weekend trip? He shook his head. He checked his watch and found that there was half an hour to go for his flight’s departure. He paced up and down.
Twenty long minutes later, Rachna arrived at the security line. Jatin breathed a sigh of relief when he saw her carrying a black American Tourister bag. Her eyes widened when she saw her clothes spread on the table. She scowled at him.
“Can you show me some ID?” The officer demanded. She obliged.
“Now, look at all this and identify if it’s yours.”
She looked through the contents. “It’s all mine.”
Several more questions followed. After what seemed like an eternity, the officer relented. “Next time, bring your own damn bag.” He waved Jatin off.
Rachna collected her bag, and rushed off.
“Hey Rachna,” Jatin called after her. “Thanks for coming here. And sorry again.”
“I’ll be late for my morning class now.” She shouted, without looking back.
Jatin scrambled to his gate. Five minutes past flight time. He looked around. The area was deserted. There were no passengers. He went to the lady at the counter.
“What happened to the flight to Chicago?”
“Oh yes, the flight to Chicago.” The lady smiled. “It’s gone. We had an early departure.”
“Early departure? What kind of airline is this?” He clenched his fist. Why couldn’t he get a delayed flight, like in a normal airline?
“Excuse me?”
“Nothing. I guess I missed it. Can you get me on another flight?”
She tapped some keys in front of a computer screen. “The next flight is at four. But it goes via New York, with a two hour layover. It will reach Chicago by nine tomorrow morning.”
“Nothing that reaches before that?” His interview was scheduled at nine thirty.
“No, that’s the best we can do.”
“Fine, I’ll take it then.”
He reached New York without further incident. The JFK airport teemed with people who rushed from one gate to another. He decided to take a nap. When he woke, he had no idea how long he had slept.
“Delayed again, damn it.” The man sitting in front of him said.
Jatin looked up at the digital display above the gate. His flight to Chicago had been delayed by five hours. He felt a knot tighten in his stomach. He stood up. “What’s going on? Why is it delayed?”
The man seated there smiled. “Look outside the window.”
Jatin swiveled around. He was greeted by a sea of white snow. It covered the planes, the ground below and everything else in sight. Soft white snowflakes poured down nonstop at oblique angles. He let out a low whistle.
“It’s a blizzard. No planes can take off.” The man said.
“Fuck.” Jatin said, for the umpteenth time in the last twelve hours. He called his contact at Mckinsey, and explained the situation. Ten minutes later, she called him back and said that the people who were scheduled to interview him weren’t available later. She suggested that he could do a phone interview. Reluctantly, he agreed and so it was setup for an hour later.
He selected a seat, as isolated as he could find, and put his bag down. He stood up and walked around in circle. A phone interview, he could have done from the comfort of his room. But now his job prospects at the country’s top consulting firm would be decided at the crowded JFK terminal.
An hour later, he planted himself down in the chair. Beads of sweat rolled down his forehead. He picked up the phone and called Mckinsey.
“Hello, I’m calling about my phone interview.”
“Yes, Justin, you’re early. We were about to call you. I’ll patch you through to your interviewer.”
Did she call him Justin? The security officer at Pittsburg had called him that. He dismissed the thought. How little had he slept? While he waited, he took a bottle of water and splashed some on his face.
“Hello, how are you doing?” A voice came on the line.
“I’m doing good, thanks.” His voice felt hoarse.
“You have a very impressive resume.”
“Yes…yes, thanks.” Jatin wondered which lines on his resume could have been classified as impressive.
“I see you have lots of experience in database design.”
“Okay.” He conceded. Did one class project count as ‘lots of experience’?
“So, you designed a scalable, distributed database. What kind of caching mechanisms did you use to ensure optimal performance?”
Jatin took a gulp of water. He scratched his head. He could only recall building a simple three-table database in his project. He had just googled some examples and modified them.
“Hello, are you there?” The voice asked.
“Yes, I’m here.”
“So, tell me what techniques did you use?”
“Umm…I just used SQL.” Jatin slapped his forehead. Stop saying obvious things.
“SQL? Yes, but I asked about the caching mechanism.”
“Err…umm…I can’t remember.”
“Okay, let’s move on. So, for the image processing software that you built, what algorithm did you use for face detection?”
Jatin removed his handkerchief and mopped his brow. He had dropped in on a Computer Graphics class and submitted one assignment, but nothing noteworthy. Could he have put this on his resume?
“Umm…face detection, yes….umm…I used the Kramer-Gellar algorithm.” The career counselor at his university had advised to always appear confident during interviews even when you have no idea what the answer is.
“Kramer-Gellar? I’m not familiar with that one.”
Jatin wasn’t familiar with it either, considering that he had just put together two names from his favorite television shows. “Umm…yes, it’s a new algorithm by two scientists in Norway.”
On the other side of the call, he heard a pencil scribble away on paper.
“Okay, so for the Network Intrusion Detection System that you architected, how did you guard against buffer overflow attacks?”
Jatin swallowed. He couldn’t remember having taken a Network Security class. “Can you repeat the question?”
“Yes, I asked about the Intrusion Detection. Can you talk about more that?”
“Fuck.” Jatin whispered under his breath. This interview had become a massacre.
“What was that?”
“Nothing, I’m sorry I am unable to hear clearly. There’s a lot of disturbance.” Jatin played a heavy metal song on his iPod and held the speaker close to the phone.
The interviewer raised his voice. “I asked about the Intrusion Detecti..”
Jatin increased the volume. “I still can’t hear.”
“The software for Intrusion Detection...”
Jatin’s face was covered in perspiration. His right foot shook back and forth. Suddenly, he pressed the red button on his phone and ended the call.
“Fuck.” He shouted out loud. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” He had prepared his resume two months back and couldn’t recall what kind of crap he had put on it.
His phone rang again. It was from Mckinsey.
With an unsteady hand, he answered the call. “He...Hello.”
“Hello, we are calling from Mckinsey with reference to a phone interview that was in progress. Can we resume the interview?”
“Alright...fine…go ahead.” Jatin said it as though someone had asked him for his left kidney.
The same interviewer came on the line. “Hello Justin, I’m sorry we got cut off. Now, what was I saying?”
Justin? Did he say Justin? This time he felt sure he had heard Justin.
“Excuse me, did you say Justin?”
“Yes.”
“Who is Justin?”
“What?” There was a pause at the other end. “Well, you are Justin, Justin Jones.”
“Really?”
“That’s what I have here. Justin Jones, PhD from Stanford, worked for three years at Oracle and four years at Microsoft.”
Jatin skipped up and clutched his hair. “What? I…umm…I never did all that..actually, my name is Jatin.”
“Jatin?” A sound of papers being ruffled. “Jatin you said? Well, who are you?”
“Ha? I’m a Master’s student at University of Pittsburg, applying for a junior consultant.”
“Hold on.” There was silence at the other end. Five minutes later, he came back on.
“There seems to be a misunderstanding. I was to interview a Justin Jones at the same time that you called up. The recruiter thought that you were Justin and patched you through.”
“Oh okay.” Jatin sat down and exhaled. “Actually, I had an interview scheduled today, but I’m stuck at New York airport.”
“Yes, I’m sorry about this. Your interview will be rescheduled next week.”
“Next week? But I’m already at New York, I have a flight to Chicago.”
“Yes, I’m very sorry for the inconvenience. Our company will pay for your flight back to Pittsburg of course. Also, to compensate, we will fly you down business class next week. The recruiter will call you with the details.”
“Okay.” Jatin said. It had been that kind of day.
“By the way, is there a Kramer-Gellar algorithm?”
“Umm…no, not really.” Jatin allowed himself a smile.
“Right.” And the line went dead.
The next day, Jatin was back at the University campus, narrating his experience to Swati, who couldn’t stop giggling. By the time he had finished the story, she rolled on the floor with laughter.
Swati looked at him. “You know what your new nick name will be, right?”
“Yeah.” Jatin stood and made his hands appear like a gun in a mock James Bond pose. “My name’s Jones, Justin Jones.”
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