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.
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.
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