The Episode of The Soiled Socks

It had only been one galactic month since Kekda Man had come back from his visit to Bugster and Boomerang had already begun to bore him. “There are just two suns and half a moon after all. What could be more boring?” whined Kekda. We couldn’t have agreed more. Soon enough, the monotony and the humdrum of existence gets to him. He decides to bunk fighting Giant Gila Strut Monsters and plans a clandestine trip to Bugster Cluster for very obvious raison d'être. Here’s an exclusive account of the escapade.

Glossary of Galactic Terms

Mogamboji
The patron God of all God fearing philosophers. Marvin Black was a very famous disciple of his during the early stages of his philosophical expeditions.

Class Alpha Space Jetters
A cheap mode of travel used for shuttling back and forth between galaxies and star clusters.

Clux-2 Star Ship
An ancient version of the state of the art aquamarine Clux-5 Star Ship. A public mode of transport.

Tedha Makdi
A struggling author, currently working on his book on Marvin Black.

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After a much harried journey in the Class Alpha Space Jetters, Kekda gets down at the Bugster space-port. Avoiding the much feared and even more reviled media scrutiny, he manages to call up Chirkut from a public phone booth. She’s already getting ready for the “baah” time. Pleased at having irritated her amply, he sets out for the rendezvous point. Chirkut’s late, yet again. She mouths some apologies which (quite understandably) fall on deaf ears. The two mull over some plans for the day over a not so delectable breakfast. Any clichéd suggestions are shown the door with alacrity. Being two of the creed of IC (Intellectual Chutiyas), they eventually decide to visit the tomb of Mogamboji. “It had been on the cards for some time now”, sighed Kekda. Chirkut was researching for her book on Marvin Black and Mogamboji featured prominently in it, being one his early mentors.

The unassuming couple made their way to the monument on foot, Kekda wondering half the time whether he should have opted for a Clux-2 Star Ship. The place seemed to have been maintained well, the corruption rampant in the Bugster Council notwithstanding. A sufficiently large mound halted their advance as soon as they crossed the gates. Soon enough, realization dawns, much to the relief of our flustered Kekda. The center of the mound had been hollowed out to shelter the shrine. As Kekda clambered over the hurdle, he found that the grass had been generously endowed with “hagga water”. Splosh. Splash. Squelch. Eww. Grrrr. The very fashionable sandals and the even more in-vogue socks were now a dark gooey mess. Cribbing over the fact that his new socks had been soiled by some despicably smelling fluids, Kekda blamed Chirkut for being the Smart Alec and opting for the indirect route. She just chuckled and hopped her way to the top, very much elated at the unexpected turn of events.

After much pacification and philosophical upliftment at the catacomb, both of them decide to rest for a while. A strip of green bordering the walls catches the attention of six untrained eyes. The grass seemed cool and green, vaguely inviting. The blades had been tried and tested, found to be palatable (!!), and then neglected with equal indifference. As the twosome made their way to a not-so-secluded spot under a skinny tree, Kekda debated over the nature of shadows cast by opaque objects, much to the dismay of his companion. We believe he gave up on the subject with adroitly suppressed reluctance. The breeze was soothing under the shades. Kekda discarded his socks, shoes, watch, wallet and binoculars. Lying there, they seemed like adornments that had lost the patronage of their owner. As people milled around and made their way to the tomb, they became the subject of some interesting conversation.

“In case you notice, that woman is wearing a dhoti. Women are not supposed to do that. Didn’t her Bugsterian escort tell her as much?” Kekda interjected after sometime had passed.

“How can you say so? I can wear whatever catches my fancy. So can she.” Chirkut argued. She was lounging with carefree abandon and seemed distantly beautiful. Meanwhile, a squirrel engrossed itself in a game of nibble-and-run with Kekda.

“It’s all hogwash. There are some norms we need to adhere to”, remarked he while trying to disfigure his toes into some diabolical shape and scare Chirkut into submission.

“Yap. Yap. Yap. The feminine kind has a lot of choice when it comes to garments anyway. I presume she just wants to add one more item to the repertoire.”

Silence, of the comfortable kind. A few whispers shied away from either’s notice. Then words coagulated to from meaningful sentences, providing more depth to conversation than silence had tried to only a few moments before. The mouthfuls of alphabets were streaming forth from different directions. She was gazing into the blues while he seemed enamored by the greens. They seemed intended for no one in particular. Yet the very act of letting them out seemed to be reassuring. Gila Monsters were debated over and so were irksome philosophers. To say time flew by would only add to the abounding clichés. Yet it did.

Ever since his arrival in Bugster, Chirkut had been pestering Kekda to visit her hideout in some nondescript corner of the cluster. Kekda was very tacitly trying to avoid the constant stream of pleas (as well as glares) that one would associate with the fairer sex. Eventually, he gave up, hoping the experience would be enlightening its own devious fashion. In order to speed up the entire rigmarole, they (read he) hailed a Clux-2 Star Ship. They zoomed over the roads, spread below them in some abstruse pattern. Now that Kekda paid attention, they appeared to resemble thousands of snakes writhing in agony, while paying homage to their benefactor through some ancient anguine ritual.

Fast forward to Chirkut’s abode. It’s a nice place, contrary to expectations. Kekda is impressed, though he hides the fact from the searching eyes of someone we know. It’s dark inside and the sun is almost about to set. The dying rays try to push their way in through the pale curtains. Kekda sprawls on the floor, exhausted and rejuvenated. Simultaneously. Amusingly. She fumbles around with the kitchen cabinet and (surprisingly!!) manages to concoct something edible. A glass shatters somewhere in the process, and some grumbling ensues naturally. The hospitality is commendable and does not go unnoticed by both. She is surprised while he amused (again?). The adequately delayed sumptuous (!!) lunch is enjoyed by both the involved parties. Or was it just one?

Food often ends up having the uncanny ability of opening people up. The same could be said that evening. Thus, while she relayed her apprehensions about her new book and Tedha Makdi, he worried over his exponentially deteriorating monster fighting capabilities. And yet, while both seem disturbed, a strange calm prevailed. The irony was almost sanguine. Kekda wondered whether that added to the beauty of the situation they found themselves in. Whether bliss is almost divine, and least ephemeral, when mingled with its antithesis. It was hard to fathom Chirkut’s thoughts. They seemed buried deep below the creases lining her brow. Kekda tried to make some sense of the pattern. But he gave up, unwilling to find something unanticipated and unwanted. We believe she realized the same, for she had tried to contort her face into a smile. Failing to do so, she fidgeted over the mess that they had made, trying to tidy it up.

Silence again, of the comfortable kind. When the time came to leave, none fussed over its dearth. The walk back was walked back. Neither bothered about formalities and farewells. Probably it was best that way. Probably it was only novelty that kept them going, time and again. We hope all’s well at their end. By saying we sincerely hope that the freshness lasts forever we would only reinstate another cliché. But then again, who cares.

So long, and thanks for all the socks.

Paranoia

Lean
Slender
Scraggy
Gaunt
Lank
Gaunt
Flimsy Slim Small
Reedy Spare Rangy
Gangly
Rickety
Scrawny
Pinched
Haggard
Meager
Skimpy
Fine Twigggy Puny

Mundane Mediocrity

Kekda Man and Chirkut Lady had been conspicuous by their absence for quite some time now. Socialites in high profile parties had already started speculating about their much documented reconciliation. “Have they split up again?” wondered a few of the gossip mongers. Unfortunately, the publicists of both the concerned parties had refrained from confirming or denying any of the speculations, much to the dismay of the junta at large. Even Cheekat Aadmi (the instigator of the hugely propagandized tiff in The Episode of The Giant Gila Strut Monsters) had been interviewed at least a dozen times. Meanwhile, SleepingTablets was employing all its sleuthing tactics in order to lay bare the facts which had become the talk of the galaxy. It eavesdropped on a seemingly innocent looking electronic conversation and unearthed striking revelations about the current status of the relationship between Kekda and Chirkut. Here’s an exclusive account of the gup-shup. We let the reader be the judge.

Glossary of Galactic Terms (For First Timers)

Kekda Man and Chirkut Lady – We all know who THEY are. They are the very dangerous Kekda Man (from Boomerang Galaxy) and the very irritating Chirkut Lady (from Bugster Cluster). Obviously.

Languages - Batak Toba, Inuktitut, and Hutsi are all galactic languages, very much like our Hindi, English, and Marathi.

Space-Port – This contraption is somewhat on the lines of an airport, with the only difference being that it caters to space ships instead of airplanes.

State of the Art Aquamarine Clux - 5 Start Ship - Abey PSPO nahin jaante kya?

~~~~

Kekda Man – Why are you waiting at the space-port? I could have sent over my state of the art aquamarine Clux 5 Star Ship to pick you up. This confirms my doubts about you having no brains at all. I think.

Chirkut Lady – Uff!! You won’t understand. Forget it. Uhmm…Well let me try explaining. The space-port here is so white you know. It’s like all white. Unlike the one in Bugster Cluster or Boomerang Galaxy. And the people are so interesting. They look at you even if you clear your throat. How romantic is that?

Chirkut Lady

Kekda – Very. I find it vaguely arousing. Some people are probably making out in the washrooms, and plausibly there is a painter etching it all on his canvas. What are you doing anyway? Hasn’t the space ship landed yet?

Chirkut – You ask a lot of questions uncle. I don’t have the energy to either reply or argue. So I will keep it short. The ship is running way too late. I am very tired and very sleepy. And this place is bugging me with its incessant announcements about flights that don’t even remotely sound like mine. I feel like screaming. Very loud.

Kekda – That was a very long sentence. And it was in a language I am not very comfortable with. Do you mind switching over to Batak Toba? I have a hunch the emotions will flow way more freely, from me to you and vice versa.

Chirkut – Don’t talk rubbish. I know you understand Inuktitut very well. Hey…I just noticed. There’s chewing gum stuck to the chair in front of me. It’s very green and very light.

Kekda – Oh. The Gums. I KNOW the space authorities have deliberately stuck gum behind each of their chairs. You are supposed to actually eat them. It’s a very environmental approach. People get intrigued by the “very green and very light” gums and start chewing them. This way they don’t talk too much and mind their own business. Go ahead. Give it a try. Tell me what it tastes like. Mine seemed like it had been dipped in a solution of vanilla mucus.

Chirkut – I am deciding not to buy that story. It’s amusing anyway. The space-port is all very white and clean. Yet, there has to be a gum stuck to the chair I have a full view of. I find it very poetic.

Kekda – Count me in the poetic rendezvous. Let’s make it a bit more interesting. Describe the person sitting next to you only if she is a female.

Chirkut – You na. She looks like a mum of two. I am quite sure both of you won’t be interested in each other.

Kekda – I seem to have run out of luck even since I set my eyes upon you. Why don’t you ever get the hint? Anyway, there has to be some decent looking specimens in the place you have come to like SO much.

Chirkut – I choose not to tell. Do you mind? There are people staring at me because I am yapping so much in a tongue they are not too comfortable with.

Kekda – I suppose you should start telling them how much you adore their “white palace”. But I have heard they are very regional in their thinking. So proclaim your love in Hutsi. They will all do their biggest grin, walk over, hug you, and ask you to visit again.

Kekda Man

Chirkut – Aha, I see. So that is how you get all those people to bash you up. Thanks a ton for the piece of advice. I’ll keep it in mind.

Kekda – I knew we had run out of humanity in our part of the galaxy. I just needed to be sure. I am now.

Chirkut – Baah. Humbug. It’s useless even talking to you. You don’t realize how much luggage I am towing. I am carrying 7 pairs of chappals right now. That too in one bag (which I had to buy for the same reason). My shoulders are aching and the bones might get dislocated any time now.

Kekda – Finally, you give me some good news. I guess you have finally managed what only the ants have been able to do – carry more stuff than your own weight. Maybe I’ll report you to the custom authorities and they’ll keep you behind bars for smuggling leather goods. I wonder if they take bribes.

Chirkut – Shhhh. I think that’s my flight they are blaring about.

Kekda – Nopes. You are dreaming. Sure of it.

Chirkut – Ok, I am off now. I have had enough of your crap. I think the spaceship has finally graced us with its presence. AND they don’t allow us to talk once we have boarded the thingy.

Kekda – Arey! Don’t let anyone tell you what to do aunt. Here’s a brainwave. Keep talking on the phone. Probably an air hostess will come over give you “the look”. Pay no attention dearie. Keep yapping. This will cause another (and more somber looking) stewardess to stride over. But that shouldn’t stop you from exercising your right to express yourself either. Keep jabbering until the pilot himself declares that it will be either your phone or him traveling this night. Even then, make sure to declare it was only out of decency that you decided to hang up.

Chirkut – Blah blah blah. Is that all you can come up with? Trash? Anyway, they have made the final boarding call. I better get going now. Say all the niceties you should. For instance, “have a nice flight”, “call me up on touching down” etc.

Kekda – Yeah, right!


With these comforting words Kekda hangs up on Chirkut. We are not very sure but almost all the guys here believe that Chirkut’s last words sounded somewhat like “Whaaaaaaaaa”, with a little more stress on the A’s than you would usually accord them. We tried snooping on the same frequency again. But to no avail. Our technical experts are working on it 24x7. As soon as we will hear from them, so will you.

So long, and thanks for all the chewing gum.

Dharti Putra

Word of Derision - This is mostly plagiarized from a mail I wrote (and one I received). I apologize for the lack of originality.

In a time not so long ago, humans occupied the ramparts of a dilapidated fortress in the state of Gujarat. They guarded their private space with fierce gumption and allowed no one to intrude upon it. As time passed by, some humans got jazzier (by the day) about cohabiting with exotic species. Soon, certain varieties of peacocks, langurs and the like also joined the military ranks. No one minded the change of policy as it was the order of the day. However, slowly but steadily, certain numbers from the rival K9 Gang (Canine to non-jazzy people) also started taking over significant portions of the human territory. Nocturnal rendezvous in shady corners (for obvious reasons) became forbidden. Social gatherings in uncharted areas became a strict no-no. Dogs, as the intruders came to be known as, had struck fear in the hearts of the mighty warriors of the human kind. Dogs were everywhere. They slept in our rooms, ate from our plates, drank from our cups, and peed in our washrooms. The time was ripe for a revolution.

Humans marched in big numbers, protesting against the council’s inability to deal with the problem. But there was a minority faction to deal with. Concerned voices in the faction were supporting the cause of the Dogs. “No, they are not going to be chucked out of the campus. That probably amounts to cruelty against an endangered species”, said their spokesperson. It didn’t matter if they enacted obscene scenes learnt from National Geographic and guffawed at our discomfiture. Many of us were caught in a predicament (that undecided gang probably included me too). To itch or not to itch. That was the question. The benefit of doubt went to the Canine kind. They were staying. That day, huge numbers of Dogs came out and reveled through the night. They wagged their tales at their distracters. They danced. They feasted. They howled. And, then they mated :|

The era of the Jhola Krantikaris had just begun. They sniffed around for abusers of environment (the list included acrobatic lizards as well) and jhadofied them in full public view. “Beware of the JKs”, we told our junior militia. I switched off my power guzzling night lamp more often than I would have liked to. I even began snooping around in barred rooms and putting out lamps and fans. The frightened militia was even known to feed Dogs from outside the fortress. The JKs seemed pleased at this. An uneasy peace existed. But that was the lull before another storm.

I remember the story well. It all began one day when a majority of the humans could be seen wandering from wing to wing, soap in hand, wondering where they could dispose of all the muck from the day before. Some of the displeased were the dreaded JKs. They called a meeting…………

Now let's dwell on the water saving tirade for some time. It had been on the agenda for quite some time. Thus it’s paramount that one understands the background. It's only then that one realizes the ingenuity of the solution. Now, we probably have more trees, shrubs, bushes, herbs, gardens and grass than any other institute in the state of Aapnu Gujarat. Anyway, maintaining the manicured gardens takes enormous amounts of man power (and water). “We Provide Employment”, they say. Fine. But what about water? Where is that going to come from? Silence. Aha.

"What about getting rid of them? Chop down the bloody things", said another visionary. No can't do. The green looking things are all counted and accounted for. It’s very likely that there is actually a number that can be arrived at. The singularity of the situation can be better appreciated when one is told that the institute land is actually forest area that has been leased out to the administration at a fee of Re 1 per year. Hefty fine awaits anyone who as much as plucks a twig from a dead tree. Talk about inflation and the entire hullabaloo surrounding it. Baah.


Back to the meeting……….

Now sometime during the course of the heated discussions, some crazy ass environmental freak (like so many that can be found these days) suggested that we should use sewage water for watering all the lush greenery in the campus. Even the JKs themselves were a bit surprised by the novelty of the idea. Whaaaaat? Are you crazy? Heh heh...sorta. Damn. The majority, not knowing what to do because of the turds still inside them, supported the wild idea and the plan got implemented. So now every evening (mornings when I am fortunate) we have our lovely sprinklers going swish swish swish with the hagga water all over the campus. The water is treated of course. But the stench remains, at least for an hour (or maybe more). Poor and helpless militia men (read students) can often be found employing hitherto unknown acrobatic skills in evading jets of sweet smelling fluids. It is said that no nasal malfunctions have been reported till now.

But our jhola krantikaris did not stop at just that. Some wisecrack amongst them suggested that we use the same (hagga) water for our tatti washing sessions too. Voila. Potty mein to waise hi badboo aati hai. Paani se thodi aur sahi. Clap Clap Clap. What a visionary! So here I am, a normal guy gifted with a decent sense of smell, who is subjected to attacks on his nasal sensibilities every day. The lavatories don't have a flush. Just turn the knob and whoooosh, your hagga water is back to serve you in your daily ablutions, sans all the muck. Life couldn’t have been better.

The story of our Dharti Putras does not end here of course. They continue to fight for their cause. Their distracters jeer at them for being sissy. The undecided kind hang out with whomsoever they deem fit. So it might be safe to say that I am contributing my bit in saving the planet. Dew or no dew, let's just say we smell it every day, shall we?

Virgin Irony

The skies had been overcast that day and the gloom of the heavens seemed to have settled upon his mantle as well. But the night had been remarkable, if not strikingly extraordinary. He was about to find that out. The welcome chill had dissuaded him from leaving the room. A muffler was unearthed from the darkest reaches of the cupboard and secured around the scraggy neck. It reminded him of home, cold and distant. Just when he had decided to indulge in a midnight reverie, a face popped into the four walls, harried and busy. Said something about the moon looking particularly appealing. He shrugged his shoulders. It almost always did. The air began to reek of nonchalance and so the face popped out. He remained seated. There was pending work; he realized balefully, brushed the guilt still clinging to his shoulders, and set about effecting the monotonous and then the mundane.

A few shadows later, he chanced to step out of the confines. The cold stung his face and brought him to his senses, now sharp. The face had been speaking the truth. He walked to the balcony, breathing in large mouthfuls of the strange ether. Maybe it was his weird fascination with everything nocturnal. But the air smelled like someone had just cupped a handful of wet soil and blown it your way. He stood still for some time and then jabbed a message on the keypad, the technocrat that he was. Having looked up for longish time and traced out the plough in the night sky, he dawdled back to the door. The bed looked inviting, as it always did. The radical and the rational tried resisting the temptation. But we all know who won. Black Out.

The morning began late. Routine personified. The mellow sun seemed to be spelling out an amused hello. Strange. He ran the gauntlet and sat on the rusty iron bench. The trees still seemed to be reveling in the singularity of last night. Two dogs appeared to be enjoying the gentle breeze and the yellow sun. They frolicked with carefree abandon. Then suddenly realizing that he was observing them, the twosome scampered away, disgusted at this sudden breach of their private space. A cat came out of hiding and took advantage of the coincidence by scaring a few pigeons lounging in the verdant garden. Meanwhile, he tried squinting at the sky and was immediately blinded by the bluish white. A stupid head was shook in disbelief. Then a resolution was stashed away in some nondescript corner of the brain.

A shadow shuffled past him, bucket in tow. It stared at him in ill-concealed amazement and then went about drying the still dirty undergarments. One blue. One brown. One some fancy French sounding color. The shadow filed past, content and smug at having done something much more constructive than smudging ink with paper. He realized how impeccable that smugness had been. He had brought a book too, realizing the fact a bit too late. Pencil. Sharpener. Spectacles. All were handled with due care and placed on the bench, the rust symbolizing something more than just neglect. The book had been serving as the writing pad. A sheepish grin later, another shadow flitted past. Some random questions were thrown about. The shadow departs. This one content and smug too.

The rest of the day hurried past, leaving him with hardly any time to ponder over the obvious. It had been his secret pact with Routine. He would not complain about the monotony of daylight if the dark held enough adventures to sustain his imagination. He was seldom disappointed and thus kept his side of the bargain, quite innocently believing in the honesty of the other party. He was back in his room before the sun had set, expectant and somewhat excited. What would it be? Some new theory to mull over? Some novel idea to be romanticized? He waited for the scandals to pour in. A few whispers were lost in useless contemplation. Nothing new, he thought. They would make an appearance, more sooner than later. More shadows and whispers pass by, somewhat curious about the lack of activity. It is then that restlessness started to trickle in. It was obvious he did not have any stratagem for such a situation. So he charts crooked circles in the room, very clearly frustrated at the breach of treaty. He grumbles and complains, half expecting some brilliant idea to show up any time. But the food for thought is conspicuous by its absence. Exasperated by his listlessness more than anything else, he decides to call it a day.

Far away in his clandestine hideaway, Routine let out a muffled snigger. His plan had obviously succeeded. Only time would tell whether the idiot down yonder realized the same. The poor bloke had quite obviously succumbed to the charm. He had been snatching words from light as easily as he had swindled the night into loaning them out. “Comprehension would dawn soon enough”, contemplated the wily Routine. His task there was done. He set out in search of another fellow, gazing at his yellow window of light in search of some anecdotes and scandals. "What would it be this time?", he thought in a sinister fashion. "A promise rather than a pact", he chuckled quietly and disapparated with a "poof".

Concrete Observations

Routine starts with the me getting up in the nick of time, only to find later that there was a lot of time to waste. A much needed bath and a carton of milk later, four harried shadows are on their way to hallowed grounds. A fruitless mission, I realize. Some think otherwise and happen to be a bit more optimistic. A newspaper flutters in the wind. I try to catch the fleeting words. They chuckle at my helplessness. I give up in exasperation, much to their astonishment.

Reach the exalted confines of IIM Ahmedabad. The campus is amazing and the architecture awe inspiring. I am afraid to scale its entirety with my timid eyes. So I look away. Its austerity is almost intimidating, forcing you into peaceful submission. Then suddenly, when you have quietly accepted defeat, it accepts you into its folds, as one of its own. I sit down on the parapet, pleasantly smug at the unexpected frankness. The arches seem to be greeting the sun’s rays, politely bending them to suit their own whims. The rays sketch playful patterns in the aisles and frame the numerous photographs on the walls. There is not a single drop of paint in vicinity. The bricks seem fresh and smell as if they are just out of the kiln, the aroma assailing one’s nostrils like sarcasm.

We walk the corridors and somehow the space inspires us to grow, to be better than our present selves. We enter a room and it’s as if a door into the past has opened. I am reminded of the the time when light filtered through pale curtains and lit up the board game I had just spread out on the floor, pestering others to join in. Hushed voices are heard and we file out in haste, my reverie now broken. The library is a monument of words; we pay our homage to its overbearing presence and surrender in humility.

We realize the presence of some notes suspended in symphony and retrace our steps to the shor sharaba. More shadows milling around. Shadows in love. Some expressing it with passion. Some resorting to subtlety. Few professing height of fashion. Few age-old tradition. Noodle straps. Halter necks. Salwar kameez.

The Shadows mingle with the crowd and feel at home. But soon their curiosity gets the better of them. They poke their inquisitive noses into other unexplored corners. Hurried steps pass them by, wanting to catch up with the world. In juxtaposition, two pups suckle milk. Contentment personified. The Shadows think of lingering till they can melt into the darkness. So much for philosophical muses.

We ride a bus back. I find some space on the hump beside the driver. A stranger had warned me of dire consequences of utilizing the unlikely spot. However, I decide to run the risk. The windshield in front has CNG sprawled across it. A bell rings and a face gets off. A lady with a smiling face balances the numbers. I notice her love interest dropping her off at the bus depot. Hence the smiling face. Comprehension dawns. She wears a red dress. Little red riding hood, I smile in secret jest. No one offers her a seat and I guard mine with fierce selfishness. The face doesn’t wrinkle into a frown as the bell jingles on and off. Faces and shadows sway in suspended animation. The trees grow in numbers on either side of the dormant mortar. We wait.

Home beckons eventually. The shadows walk the walk back. Some disappointed more than others. I feign nonchalance. Did anyone know better?