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.
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.”
The Green Fiat
“Taxi.” Sumeet shouted at a passing black-and-yellow Fiat, the trademark Mumbai taxi. The cab drove right past him.
“Stop.” He shook his fist. “Stupid fucking taxis.”
“Chill man, maybe that guy is done for the day.” His buddy Prakash said.
“Yeah, we’ll get another one.” Naveen agreed.
Sumeet scowled and muttered to himself. He pushed back his curly locks of hair, which he hadn’t cut or even combed for months. A few minutes later, they found a taxi.
“Man, I’m exhausted.” Prakash said, as he sunk into the back seat. Clean-shaven and with a military-length haircut, he was the shortest of the three. “These evening tution classes kill me.”
“Welcome to second semester Engineering.” Naveen said. The thinnest of the three, he ducked his six-foot tall frame into the front seat. “Life is gonna be like that now.” He toyed with the dial of his brand new Titan watch.
Sumeet, the most muscular of the three, bustled into the back seat, and slammed the door shut. “Napeansea Road.”
There was traffic in Bandra, even at eight in the evening. A cacophony of car horns complimented the smell of exhaust fumes. They stopped at a red light, next to an occupied rickshaw.
“Fuck you,” Sumeet yelled at the rickshaw, for no apparent reason.
“What happened?” Naveen asked.
“Fuck everyone.” Sumeet glared outside.
“What’s with him?” Naveen asked Prakash this time.
Prakash rolled his eyes. “You know, the usual.”
“Girl trouble?” Naveen said.
“You know that babe Priya?” Prakash said. “Our man has a crush on her.”
Naveen nodded. He removed his rectangular-framed spectacles and wiped them. “She is quite hot.”
“Priya is just a bitch.” Sumeet said.
“Ooooh, bahut yaarana lagta hai,” Prakash grinned. Naveen laughed.
“Shut up,” Sumeet growled. “She doesn’t return my calls. Did you see how she ignored me in class today?”
“Man, forget about her.” Prakash said. “She’s not worth it.”
“Fuck her.” Sumeet said. “Fuck them all.”
At the next signal, Sumeet again cursed at nearby cars.
“Take it easy.” Naveen said. “Why abuse random people?”
Sumeet ignored him. He turned to a green Fiat, which had a driver and one passenger. “Fuck you’ll, haraams.” He flipped his middle finger at them. “Bhen Chod”
Naveen shook his head. He rolled his window down for air, with his elbow sticking out. Their taxi drove on, and Sumeet abused away to his heart’s content. They were halfway home when Prakash turned around and looked behind. He did this a few times in quick succession. “You know what? That green Fiat our man abused is following us.”
“No way, man.” Naveen dismissed the notion. “That was ten minutes ago. They can’t have followed us all the way.”
“Yeah,” Sumeet said. “Why would they do that?”
“Look, I don’t know why and shit,” Prakash said. “All I know is that two cars behind us, I see a green Fiat that looks exactly same.”
Naveen craned his neck. “I don’t see it.”
Sumeet looked around. “Yeah, I don’t see it too.”
“Wait,” Sumeet paused. “Actually, maybe you’re right. I think it’s in the left lane.”
Naveen leaned outside. “What you guys talking about? Where is…”
A screech of tires on concrete cut him off. A Fiat pulled alongside them, green like a leaf. From the front seat, a pair of bloodshot red eyes stared at them, without blinking. The face had a thick beard and the shoulders were the widest that Sumeet had ever seen. The man looked like Sanjay Dutt’s gangster character in the movie Vaastav.
Sumeet felt his pulse rate increase. Naveen pulled himself inside the cab. His face had gone white. Prakash shrunk lower into the back seat.
“Stop the car ahead.” The red eyes never left them as the man said this. It was a command, not a request.
Their cabbie looked across at the green Fiat. Without a word, he pulled the taxi over.
In a flash, the back seat door of their taxi flung open. Outside stood Mr. Red Eyes. Sumeet felt black sandals strike his chest with full force.
“Aaarghhh.” Sumeet screamed. Mr. Red Eyes kicked him again.
“Who you calling bhen chod?” Mr. Red Eyes asked. He grabbed Sumeet’s t-shirt and hauled him outside. He brought his right hand up and slapped Sumeet’s face with the back of his palm. It was the best executed backhand Sumeet had seen in all his years of tennis, complete with back swing and follow through.
Sumeet tasted his own blood. His cheeks burned like a kitchen stove. He brought his hands together. “Please bhaiya, sorry.”
“Take him,” Mr. Red Eyes told the driver of the green Fiat. A stocky man with a twisted frown pushed Sumeet into the back seat of the Fiat.
All this while, Naveen had not moved a muscle. His limbs were frozen stiff as he watched the scene unfold. Mr. Red Eyes stood in front of him. A heavy hand smacked the right side of his face. Naveen yelped and held his face. It was the forehand slap this time.
“Please,” Naveen joined his hands in prayer. Mr. Red Eyes took no notice, caught Naveen’s t-shirt and jerked it upwards. His neck struck against the car door. His new watch hit the door handle, its dial smashed. Mr. Red Eyes did this again. And again.
Naveen moaned. “Please stop.” The searing pain in his neck was becoming unbearable. An open palm smacked his face. His glasses flew off, and hit the door. Naveen saw his frame broken into two pieces. One lens had come off, cracked.
“What you gesturing at us, ha?” Mr. Red Eyes told Naveen, sticking his elbow outward.
“I…I…I was just sitting,” Naveen stammered. Mr. Red Eyes slapped him again.
Naveen cried out. His eyes were on the verge of tears. “Please let me go, please, please.”
Mr. Red Eyes turned to Prakash, who cowered in the back seat, with his eyes were open wide and his jaw dropped down. He kicked Prakash in the shins.
“Owwww” Prakash reacted, clutching his foot. The black sandals thumped against his mid-riff. His face contorted in agony.
“Please stop, bhiaya.” Sumeet said, from the back seat of the green Fiat.
The Fiat driver glared at him. “Why did you’ll have to abuse like that?” He pointed at Mr. Red Eyes. “You pissed him off.”
“Please bhaiya, we are just kids.” Sumeet said.
The driver didn’t respond. His eyes had a glint of sympathy. Mr. Red Eyes slapped Prakash with a backhand, leaving him crouched on the floor.
The driver asked Sumeet, “How old are you’ll?”
“We are in first year of college,” Sumeet replied.
“How did you’ll college kids have such nerve? What is wrong with you’ll?” The driver shook his head.
“Sorry bhaiya, we didn’t know what we were doing.” Sumeet said. “We are small kids.” Sumeet touched his own face. A tooth of his had come loose. He watched his two friends get beaten for no fault of theirs. He felt a twinge of guilt. Damn that Priya. This was her fault.
“Please bhaiya,” Sumeet pleaded. “It will never happen again. We are very sorry.”
The driver looked at him with a penetrating gaze.
Mr. Red Eyes landed another blow, this time to Prakash’s thighs. Prakash didn’t have the energy to even scream. He remained down and waited, like a lamb to be slaughtered.
“Please bhaiya,” Sumeet persisted. “Please leave us, we are small kids.”
The driver looked at him, and at the faces of Prakash and Naveen.
“Ok, that’s enough.” He nudged his passenger, Mr. Red Eyes. But, Mr. Red Eyes brushed him off and planted a backhand slap on Naveen, who didn’t make a sound.
The driver held Mr. Red Eyes arms. “Ok, stop now. They are kids. You already hurt them enough.” His voice had an undertone of reproach.
Mr. Red Eyes glared back at the driver. He looked at the boys, and then at the driver again. He nodded. “Let’s go.”
Sumeet was shoved back into the cab. The green Fiat started up and disappeared as quickly as it had come.
The three friends sat in silence, as their taxi drove ahead. Prakash rubbed different parts of his body. Naveen bent down to retrieve his broken glasses.
“Are…Are you guys alright?” Sumeet managed to say.
“Do we look alright?” Naveen responded, not hiding his sarcasm.
“How’s your neck?” Sumeet gently touched Naveen’s neck. “I’m really sorry this happened.”
“Why the hell did you have to abuse strangers like that?” Naveen said.
“I don’t know,” Sumeet leaned back. “I don’t know what got into me. I was just frustrated. I’m really, really sorry.”
Naveen massaged his neck. “I think I’m just bruised. I’ll live.”
“You okay, Prakash?” Sumeet put a hand on his buddy’s shoulder.
“I…I guess so.” Prakash said.
“My glasses are smashed.” Naveen said. “Also my watch is cracked.”
“We’ll get it fixed tomorrow,” Sumeet said. He noticed that his own t-shirt was torn. “I’ll pay for everything.”
“No man, don’t worry.” Naveen waved him off.
“You’ll be fine.” Sumeet said, trying to sound reassuring. “We’ll all be fine.”
Sumeet couldn’t shake off the image of the bloodshot eyes. The moment he had seen those eyes, he had known they were in trouble.
They dropped Naveen off first. He lumbered out of the car. “I guess we should be thankful.”
“Thankful?” Sumeet asked.
“Yeah, we could have been killed. We got off easy.”
“Yup,” Sumeet agreed. “Take care, man. See you tomorrow.”
Their wounds healed, but Sumeet had nightmares about that night. In the years that followed, the three of them rarely spoke of the incident. But whenever Sumeet saw a green Fiat, a shiver went down his spine.
“Stop.” He shook his fist. “Stupid fucking taxis.”
“Chill man, maybe that guy is done for the day.” His buddy Prakash said.
“Yeah, we’ll get another one.” Naveen agreed.
Sumeet scowled and muttered to himself. He pushed back his curly locks of hair, which he hadn’t cut or even combed for months. A few minutes later, they found a taxi.
“Man, I’m exhausted.” Prakash said, as he sunk into the back seat. Clean-shaven and with a military-length haircut, he was the shortest of the three. “These evening tution classes kill me.”
“Welcome to second semester Engineering.” Naveen said. The thinnest of the three, he ducked his six-foot tall frame into the front seat. “Life is gonna be like that now.” He toyed with the dial of his brand new Titan watch.
Sumeet, the most muscular of the three, bustled into the back seat, and slammed the door shut. “Napeansea Road.”
There was traffic in Bandra, even at eight in the evening. A cacophony of car horns complimented the smell of exhaust fumes. They stopped at a red light, next to an occupied rickshaw.
“Fuck you,” Sumeet yelled at the rickshaw, for no apparent reason.
“What happened?” Naveen asked.
“Fuck everyone.” Sumeet glared outside.
“What’s with him?” Naveen asked Prakash this time.
Prakash rolled his eyes. “You know, the usual.”
“Girl trouble?” Naveen said.
“You know that babe Priya?” Prakash said. “Our man has a crush on her.”
Naveen nodded. He removed his rectangular-framed spectacles and wiped them. “She is quite hot.”
“Priya is just a bitch.” Sumeet said.
“Ooooh, bahut yaarana lagta hai,” Prakash grinned. Naveen laughed.
“Shut up,” Sumeet growled. “She doesn’t return my calls. Did you see how she ignored me in class today?”
“Man, forget about her.” Prakash said. “She’s not worth it.”
“Fuck her.” Sumeet said. “Fuck them all.”
At the next signal, Sumeet again cursed at nearby cars.
“Take it easy.” Naveen said. “Why abuse random people?”
Sumeet ignored him. He turned to a green Fiat, which had a driver and one passenger. “Fuck you’ll, haraams.” He flipped his middle finger at them. “Bhen Chod”
Naveen shook his head. He rolled his window down for air, with his elbow sticking out. Their taxi drove on, and Sumeet abused away to his heart’s content. They were halfway home when Prakash turned around and looked behind. He did this a few times in quick succession. “You know what? That green Fiat our man abused is following us.”
“No way, man.” Naveen dismissed the notion. “That was ten minutes ago. They can’t have followed us all the way.”
“Yeah,” Sumeet said. “Why would they do that?”
“Look, I don’t know why and shit,” Prakash said. “All I know is that two cars behind us, I see a green Fiat that looks exactly same.”
Naveen craned his neck. “I don’t see it.”
Sumeet looked around. “Yeah, I don’t see it too.”
“Wait,” Sumeet paused. “Actually, maybe you’re right. I think it’s in the left lane.”
Naveen leaned outside. “What you guys talking about? Where is…”
A screech of tires on concrete cut him off. A Fiat pulled alongside them, green like a leaf. From the front seat, a pair of bloodshot red eyes stared at them, without blinking. The face had a thick beard and the shoulders were the widest that Sumeet had ever seen. The man looked like Sanjay Dutt’s gangster character in the movie Vaastav.
Sumeet felt his pulse rate increase. Naveen pulled himself inside the cab. His face had gone white. Prakash shrunk lower into the back seat.
“Stop the car ahead.” The red eyes never left them as the man said this. It was a command, not a request.
Their cabbie looked across at the green Fiat. Without a word, he pulled the taxi over.
In a flash, the back seat door of their taxi flung open. Outside stood Mr. Red Eyes. Sumeet felt black sandals strike his chest with full force.
“Aaarghhh.” Sumeet screamed. Mr. Red Eyes kicked him again.
“Who you calling bhen chod?” Mr. Red Eyes asked. He grabbed Sumeet’s t-shirt and hauled him outside. He brought his right hand up and slapped Sumeet’s face with the back of his palm. It was the best executed backhand Sumeet had seen in all his years of tennis, complete with back swing and follow through.
Sumeet tasted his own blood. His cheeks burned like a kitchen stove. He brought his hands together. “Please bhaiya, sorry.”
“Take him,” Mr. Red Eyes told the driver of the green Fiat. A stocky man with a twisted frown pushed Sumeet into the back seat of the Fiat.
All this while, Naveen had not moved a muscle. His limbs were frozen stiff as he watched the scene unfold. Mr. Red Eyes stood in front of him. A heavy hand smacked the right side of his face. Naveen yelped and held his face. It was the forehand slap this time.
“Please,” Naveen joined his hands in prayer. Mr. Red Eyes took no notice, caught Naveen’s t-shirt and jerked it upwards. His neck struck against the car door. His new watch hit the door handle, its dial smashed. Mr. Red Eyes did this again. And again.
Naveen moaned. “Please stop.” The searing pain in his neck was becoming unbearable. An open palm smacked his face. His glasses flew off, and hit the door. Naveen saw his frame broken into two pieces. One lens had come off, cracked.
“What you gesturing at us, ha?” Mr. Red Eyes told Naveen, sticking his elbow outward.
“I…I…I was just sitting,” Naveen stammered. Mr. Red Eyes slapped him again.
Naveen cried out. His eyes were on the verge of tears. “Please let me go, please, please.”
Mr. Red Eyes turned to Prakash, who cowered in the back seat, with his eyes were open wide and his jaw dropped down. He kicked Prakash in the shins.
“Owwww” Prakash reacted, clutching his foot. The black sandals thumped against his mid-riff. His face contorted in agony.
“Please stop, bhiaya.” Sumeet said, from the back seat of the green Fiat.
The Fiat driver glared at him. “Why did you’ll have to abuse like that?” He pointed at Mr. Red Eyes. “You pissed him off.”
“Please bhaiya, we are just kids.” Sumeet said.
The driver didn’t respond. His eyes had a glint of sympathy. Mr. Red Eyes slapped Prakash with a backhand, leaving him crouched on the floor.
The driver asked Sumeet, “How old are you’ll?”
“We are in first year of college,” Sumeet replied.
“How did you’ll college kids have such nerve? What is wrong with you’ll?” The driver shook his head.
“Sorry bhaiya, we didn’t know what we were doing.” Sumeet said. “We are small kids.” Sumeet touched his own face. A tooth of his had come loose. He watched his two friends get beaten for no fault of theirs. He felt a twinge of guilt. Damn that Priya. This was her fault.
“Please bhaiya,” Sumeet pleaded. “It will never happen again. We are very sorry.”
The driver looked at him with a penetrating gaze.
Mr. Red Eyes landed another blow, this time to Prakash’s thighs. Prakash didn’t have the energy to even scream. He remained down and waited, like a lamb to be slaughtered.
“Please bhaiya,” Sumeet persisted. “Please leave us, we are small kids.”
The driver looked at him, and at the faces of Prakash and Naveen.
“Ok, that’s enough.” He nudged his passenger, Mr. Red Eyes. But, Mr. Red Eyes brushed him off and planted a backhand slap on Naveen, who didn’t make a sound.
The driver held Mr. Red Eyes arms. “Ok, stop now. They are kids. You already hurt them enough.” His voice had an undertone of reproach.
Mr. Red Eyes glared back at the driver. He looked at the boys, and then at the driver again. He nodded. “Let’s go.”
Sumeet was shoved back into the cab. The green Fiat started up and disappeared as quickly as it had come.
The three friends sat in silence, as their taxi drove ahead. Prakash rubbed different parts of his body. Naveen bent down to retrieve his broken glasses.
“Are…Are you guys alright?” Sumeet managed to say.
“Do we look alright?” Naveen responded, not hiding his sarcasm.
“How’s your neck?” Sumeet gently touched Naveen’s neck. “I’m really sorry this happened.”
“Why the hell did you have to abuse strangers like that?” Naveen said.
“I don’t know,” Sumeet leaned back. “I don’t know what got into me. I was just frustrated. I’m really, really sorry.”
Naveen massaged his neck. “I think I’m just bruised. I’ll live.”
“You okay, Prakash?” Sumeet put a hand on his buddy’s shoulder.
“I…I guess so.” Prakash said.
“My glasses are smashed.” Naveen said. “Also my watch is cracked.”
“We’ll get it fixed tomorrow,” Sumeet said. He noticed that his own t-shirt was torn. “I’ll pay for everything.”
“No man, don’t worry.” Naveen waved him off.
“You’ll be fine.” Sumeet said, trying to sound reassuring. “We’ll all be fine.”
Sumeet couldn’t shake off the image of the bloodshot eyes. The moment he had seen those eyes, he had known they were in trouble.
They dropped Naveen off first. He lumbered out of the car. “I guess we should be thankful.”
“Thankful?” Sumeet asked.
“Yeah, we could have been killed. We got off easy.”
“Yup,” Sumeet agreed. “Take care, man. See you tomorrow.”
Their wounds healed, but Sumeet had nightmares about that night. In the years that followed, the three of them rarely spoke of the incident. But whenever Sumeet saw a green Fiat, a shiver went down his spine.
Why I Love To Write
Over the past two years, I have poured much of my time and energy into writing a novel. I have attended writing classes, workshops, and seminars. My bookshelf is crowded with books about the craft of writing, all of which I have read and absorbed. I have consistently set aside several hours each week to devote to the task of putting words on a page. I do all of this in my free time, when I am not doing my day job.
Now, there is no one waiting in anticipation to read my story. The odds of being published for a first-time author are negligible. There isn’t a promise of any kind of reward at the end of this arduous journey that I have chosen to go on. So then, why would I do all of this? Am I some kind of nut? Did I fall on my head and lose my senses? Who, in their right mind, would spend hours and hours of their precious leisure time struggling to pen a coherent story that no one else might care about? Do I need psychiatric help? There are tons of other things that I can do with my time. Yet day after day, I find myself glued to the chair in front of my laptop, with my word document open and the cursor blinking expectantly.
I owe it to myself to answer the question of why I want to write. First and foremost, I write to communicate. I am a story-teller at heart. Ever since I was a child, I loved to tell stories, real or made-up, to friends, family or anyone would listen to me. Writing a novel is just an extension of that need to communicate with the world, to share my stories.
Writing is an extraordinary form of communication. It transcends time and space. I am sitting here writing this in Bellevue, USA on November 22nd, 2009. You might be reading it in another city, another country and at some time in the future. Didn’t we just communicate, transcending the barriers of time and space? I can write a story today about a horrific car accident in the snow and how the passengers heroically survived. This story might somehow be read five years later by a twenty-two year old in London, who had a similar accident soon after getting his driver’s license. He might relate to the story I’ve written. Now, I don’t know this person and he doesn’t know me. We are not even in the same year together, let alone the same room. Yet, we have connected with each other. Writing is a form of telepathy, a meeting of the minds. Writing is magic.
Another compelling reason for my passion to write is the simple joy of creation. When I write my story, I feel like I am playing God. I have built an imaginary world. I have put people in this world and I decide what happens in the lives of these people. I make them laugh. I make them cry. I make them scared. I make them endure ordeal after ordeal and watch them learn and grow as people. As I do this, I get a feeling of euphoria of creating something, where nothing previously existed. Like a mother giving birth to a child. A novel is a fictional world breathed into life by the author’s imagination. There is nothing that compares to the wonder of creation.
Finally, writing a novel serves as an un-paralleled vehicle for self-discovery. The underlying themes of the novel reflect the personality of the author. My life in the real world is mundane. I go to work, come back home, watch television, and hang out with friends on weekends. Nothing exceptional really happens. But, for the characters in my stories, all sorts of things happen. They have to survive a deadly flood, fight against a snarling dog, diffuse a bomb, jump into a moving train, dig themselves out from an underground hole, and so on. As I write these scenes, I experience the ordeals along with my characters. I see through their eyes, and feel with their heart. I laugh and cry with them. I feel their fear, joy and pain. Their reactions and emotions are indicative of my own state of mind. Writing these stories reveals to me, my fears and internal conflicts, my strengths and weaknesses, my likes and dislikes, my relationships to family and friends, my attitudes towards the world, my driving motivations and hopes for the future. Novel writing is sometimes like a free session with a psychiatrist to uncover the hidden secrets locked away in my subconscious mind. It is an effective way to truly understand what makes me tick.
I believe I have answered the question to my own satisfaction. These are enough reasons to write. Now, all days at the writing desk are not the same. On some days, writing is easy and the words flow onto the page like running water from an open tap. On other days, writing is hard, and getting any output is like trying to squeeze out the last bit of toothpaste from an empty tube. But above all, when I start creating my stories and get into the zone of writing, it is just bliss.
Now, there is no one waiting in anticipation to read my story. The odds of being published for a first-time author are negligible. There isn’t a promise of any kind of reward at the end of this arduous journey that I have chosen to go on. So then, why would I do all of this? Am I some kind of nut? Did I fall on my head and lose my senses? Who, in their right mind, would spend hours and hours of their precious leisure time struggling to pen a coherent story that no one else might care about? Do I need psychiatric help? There are tons of other things that I can do with my time. Yet day after day, I find myself glued to the chair in front of my laptop, with my word document open and the cursor blinking expectantly.
I owe it to myself to answer the question of why I want to write. First and foremost, I write to communicate. I am a story-teller at heart. Ever since I was a child, I loved to tell stories, real or made-up, to friends, family or anyone would listen to me. Writing a novel is just an extension of that need to communicate with the world, to share my stories.
Writing is an extraordinary form of communication. It transcends time and space. I am sitting here writing this in Bellevue, USA on November 22nd, 2009. You might be reading it in another city, another country and at some time in the future. Didn’t we just communicate, transcending the barriers of time and space? I can write a story today about a horrific car accident in the snow and how the passengers heroically survived. This story might somehow be read five years later by a twenty-two year old in London, who had a similar accident soon after getting his driver’s license. He might relate to the story I’ve written. Now, I don’t know this person and he doesn’t know me. We are not even in the same year together, let alone the same room. Yet, we have connected with each other. Writing is a form of telepathy, a meeting of the minds. Writing is magic.
Another compelling reason for my passion to write is the simple joy of creation. When I write my story, I feel like I am playing God. I have built an imaginary world. I have put people in this world and I decide what happens in the lives of these people. I make them laugh. I make them cry. I make them scared. I make them endure ordeal after ordeal and watch them learn and grow as people. As I do this, I get a feeling of euphoria of creating something, where nothing previously existed. Like a mother giving birth to a child. A novel is a fictional world breathed into life by the author’s imagination. There is nothing that compares to the wonder of creation.
Finally, writing a novel serves as an un-paralleled vehicle for self-discovery. The underlying themes of the novel reflect the personality of the author. My life in the real world is mundane. I go to work, come back home, watch television, and hang out with friends on weekends. Nothing exceptional really happens. But, for the characters in my stories, all sorts of things happen. They have to survive a deadly flood, fight against a snarling dog, diffuse a bomb, jump into a moving train, dig themselves out from an underground hole, and so on. As I write these scenes, I experience the ordeals along with my characters. I see through their eyes, and feel with their heart. I laugh and cry with them. I feel their fear, joy and pain. Their reactions and emotions are indicative of my own state of mind. Writing these stories reveals to me, my fears and internal conflicts, my strengths and weaknesses, my likes and dislikes, my relationships to family and friends, my attitudes towards the world, my driving motivations and hopes for the future. Novel writing is sometimes like a free session with a psychiatrist to uncover the hidden secrets locked away in my subconscious mind. It is an effective way to truly understand what makes me tick.
I believe I have answered the question to my own satisfaction. These are enough reasons to write. Now, all days at the writing desk are not the same. On some days, writing is easy and the words flow onto the page like running water from an open tap. On other days, writing is hard, and getting any output is like trying to squeeze out the last bit of toothpaste from an empty tube. But above all, when I start creating my stories and get into the zone of writing, it is just bliss.
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