Topsyturvy Mind

Death is just another story in a newsroom. However, the death of Bal Thackeray meant an edition – a 13 page-long obituary. In my office, the planning had begun a good four-five days before his death. On Thursday, when news channels went all out and the road outside Matoshree was filled with well-wishers of the former Sena chief, we were called two hours before our usual reporting time.  

This meant that a plan was in place for an edition in the event of his death. A plan that looked great on paper. Now it was our (the ‘desk’ies – the guys who actually correct and rewrite what reporters file and bring out the edition). We were handed a plan with the kind of articles that would go on to fill each page. Thursday was crucial. Everyone had assumed he would die that day. This meant that we had to make two editions- one, in the event of his death and the other, in case he survives.

We were to work on the first edition till 7pm and then switch to a regular edition post 7. There was one issue though. As there was no other significant ‘newsworthy’ happening in the city, all the journalists had no other story but variations of the ‘Bal Thackeray package’. This meant that the first edition would have fewer advertisement pages and the regular edition would be filled with it.

We were assigned pages and off we went. We got our set of stories and therein started my fascination with this man and his story. I was the co-assigned, which meant I would hardly have a story or two to edit which left me with enough time to read about him and for some reason Suu Kyi too.

We worked on our stories and our page was somewhat ready by 7.15pm. Page 6 on the ‘Bal Thackeray Special’ edition. Later, it went on to become page 9 in the main edition. However, it was almost time for the changeover and there was no sign of an announcement from Sena’s spokesperson. I had seen episodes of Master Chef where the chefs would take out a dish for the tiniest flaw and start afresh. From scratch. Add ten times more drama, and that’s what it felt like to start a whole new edition at 7pm.

Then, the usual madness ensued at the desk. Receiving the metro pages list, praying for an ad-heavy page, getting word-counts from reporters, pushing them for some graphic text or some background text, pestering designers to fit in all the stories- in time, getting the rough layouts approved by the bosses, asking for some filler stories, calling for the library for photos, rushing the photographers to ‘release’ the photos, scanning the ‘storypool’ for stories, editing the stories, hacking away to make the stories fit in the designated columns, checking on the designers’ progress of the graphic elements, send photos for scanning, getting the pages redesigned in case of some changes, some more editing and then it’s already 10.30pm. Post-10.30 tempers flare, printers spew out almost-done pages, everyone’s on edge and there is an insane fight against deadlines. On a bad day, someone gets yelled at, a last-minute story breaks and there comes about a major design makeover. On a good day, everyone is just hurrying about and running around to get prints and going through the far more scary process of getting pages approved. Then, a final check to see if all photos have been scanned, a close reading of captions and graphic text, spell check and done. Phew!

However, gods weren’t too kind because Thursday was no ordinary day.  Correctly at 11pm, Uddhav Thackeray comes on to the street to make an announcement. Wait a minute, din’t our sources tell us he was on his deathbed? You mentally curse them and after surviving a minor heartache, stare at the television set- praying that he is alive. Not necessarily because you care a lot about this man but more so because the Thackeray package is just half complete and the edition has to be sent for production latest by 12.

As luck would have it, all we could make out from the television coverage were Shiv Sainiks screaming but nothing about his speech. Just then, somebody screams “Look! He is smiling”. The desk (the set of deskies) that was frozen for a few minutes celebrates and gets on with the regular edition. That was Thursday.

After the edition has gone, Boss tells the plan for tomorrow. Come early again and finish the Bal Thackeray package. You groan loudly (Inside your head of course).

Come Friday, you wake up and feverishly scramble for the remote hoping for him to die today. (Don’t get dramatic, it’s a newsroom. We stop being human beings with emotion. All we care about is getting the best story, not missing stories and getting the goddamn edition on time, just hoping there were no glaring mistakes.) My reason for wishing for his death on Friday was simpler. Saturday is my weekly off (yes, just one day.) If he doesn’t die today, there is a possibility they will announce his death on Saturday.

Anyway, we reached early and got on with the special edition. There, of course, was no announcement and we managed another regular edition. The Boss was kind enough to inform us that we were all on standby on Saturday because they were likely to make an announcement on a Saturday.

Then came Saturday. I was of course excited about my day off and hoping against hope for Thackeray’s health to improve. I almost wished he would get up and wave to the growing crowd outside his house- something the party’s spokesperson said would happen if people prayed hard enough for his good health. So there I was happily biting into a succulent piece of chicken when my colleague called up. BAD NEWS. Not that Thackeray died but that he died on my day off and I had to get to work as soon as possible. ARGGGGGG!

Well, the craziness called the newsroom chaos started at 5 that day and ended close to 1am. Crazier- far more crazier than usual. By the time I reached home it was well past 2am.  

I opened my eyes the next morning and my eyes fell on Hindustan Times headline. It read: TIGER WILL ROAR NO MORE - in no less than 110 point size. Yes, I know. All HIS roaring happened in the newsroom last night. Sigh!

PHOTO CREDIT:

1)http://www.google.co.in/imgres?hl=en&sa=X&tbo=d&biw=1280&bih=885&tbm=isch&tbnid=gT1BLukEN6QfsM:&imgrefurl=http://digitallight.blogspot.com/2006/02/organized-chaos.html&docid=XVIeCjMaYwMSQM&imgurl=http://static.flickr.com/28/102677891_0c095baef9.jpg&w=500&h=326&ei=RgyyUOCOL8mOrgeWzIHoDg&zoom=1&iact=hc&vpx=318&vpy=164&dur=426&hovh=134&hovw=219&tx=129&ty=83&sig=105322618336644213012&page=1&tbnh=134&tbnw=219&start=0&ndsp=31&ved=1t:429,r:2,s:0,i:88

2) http://www.google.co.in/imgres?hl=en&tbo=d&biw=1280&bih=885&tbm=isch&tbnid=xxk_UP53CgcNOM:&imgrefurl=http://indiatoday.intoday.in/story/bal-thackeray-critical-not-lost-hope-says-son-uddhav/1/229164.html&docid=7VjHtx0a5szQOM&imgurl=http://media2.intoday.in/indiatoday/images/stories//2012november/uddhav-660_111612010428.jpg&w=660&h=416&ei=Nw2yULCLBNDLrQfRnYHwBA&zoom=1&iact=hc&vpx=796&vpy=187&dur=990&hovh=178&hovw=283&tx=107&ty=105&sig=105322618336644213012&page=2&tbnh=135&tbnw=191&start=30&ndsp=38&ved=1t:429,r:40,s:0,i:221

It was a Tuesday afternoon and the indicator at the platform predicted that I was to travel to office in a 3.44pm Churchgate slow that would reach Andheri in three minutes. So be it.

So there I was, next to the now defunct toilet on platform number three (which had managed to retain its precious odour and had a red condom vending machine hanging precariously next to one entrance), staring into space. The crowd prepared to get into the train that made its entry known with a loud honk thanks to some idiot standing dangerously close to the platform’s edge. Recovering from that temporary loss of hearing, I gathered my gear and took a war-like stance (Elbows out, bag brought to the front and mobile clutched firmly in one hand).

The train stopped; wait, slowed down. In Andheri, you never make the mistake of waiting for the train to stop, and try to get in. You never will get in, if you do. A multitude, pushing, shoving and cursing, fell out of what-seemed-then a narrow exit way. Thanks to my years of training and deftness, I made it in, safely. No toenail broken; no rib damaged; clothes intact; mobile in hand.

Now, moving on to my swimmer/ scavenger mode, I navigated through the crowd to reach the other side. Well, I intended to get off at Mahim, not anywhere else so I had to ensure I reached the other side. In time.

I found my spot close to the door. Not too close as to get wet in the light shower but not so far as to look at the fan begging it to blow some wind in your direction. I looked peaceful. Well, one has to find their own peace in the midst of a Gujarati aunty explaining why everyone except her is responsible for this crowded train; a Marathi government employee bitching about her colleagues; two Malayalee nurses staring at random girls and passing comments or discussing their IELTS coaching; or college girls discussing boyfriends.

All of a sudden, two women next to me wear a disgusted expression and cover their noses; Gujarati aunty finds something new to complain about and the place around me gets vacant. I put on my defensive face and convince myself that I smell great. I had used lavender-perfumed bath salts that were lying ignored in my bathroom for a month. So these women can go *&^$ themselves. I returned their stares. But, they seemed to be staring at something or someone right behind me.

A faint smell made my nostrils tingle but I couldn’t place it. I peeked outside the train. Wait, we had clearly not reached the railway-track-side-open-air- defecation-corridor yet. I wasn’t in the luggage compartment of the Virar fast either. I turned my neck (in a local train, that’s the only thing you can turn without being yelled at) to see the one responsible for this change. Suddenly, fish scales and the sea-smell (that’s what I call it) brought me back.

A middle-aged Virar fisher-woman (forgive my stereotyping) had entered the compartment with her fish basket dangerously resting on her head. How she managed to enter is still a mystery but she did and how. Random unseen faces rudely spoke about how certain people do not have the sense cannot use the luggage compartment, some stared at her as if she was covered in boils, and some started chanting some almost inaudible prayers for being near non-vegetarian soon-to-be food.

The woman was aware of all the taunts and disapproving looks and just asked people to move and made her way in front of me. I had one goal; to make sure I don’t fall on her, despite the crowd, lest the fish juice falls all over me. I was still to reach office, the bad part of my day was a good ten minutes away and I intended it to stay that way.

However, I couldn’t resist looking at her face. Marred with wrinkles and sunburnt, her face still had a deep satisfied look. I tend to have that look for a split second after I enter a crowded train before the pushing and shoving resumes. But, hers seemed to come from somewhere deep within.

My eyes went to her basket again and it looked empty save the fish scales sticking to its outsides. One hand holding the basket in place, the other hand dug out some notes from inside her blouse. A smile broke out on her face.  She seemed to be in a different world altogether, by now, oblivious to the looks she had brought on to her co-travellers faces.

That’s when it struck me. She had sold her fishes, every one of them and this was the satisfied look of a hard day’s labour. Oh, and it struck me hard.

I had never managed to feel this kind of satisfaction after my work ended. I would never be able to stand in a compartment full of people, hating my existence. I could never stand tall in the midst of people knowing what truly mattered was only my own efforts, not their opinions about me.

 Lost in my thoughts, I got off at Mahim station. As I walked along the platform, I saw the fisher-woman keep her basket down. She wiped her face with a faded cloth and re-adjusted her saree. I could still see that faint satisfied smile and it lifted my spirits.

That day, the frail fisher-woman from Virar taught me the importance of finding peace in the midst of resentment that comes only after you push yourself and do a decent job at whatever you do.

Is it so enticing that one does not mind putting one’s career at risk for the sake of watching pornography? Probably!

Now, let me just say this. I belong to that section of Indian women who consider themselves forward-thinking (always) and honest (most times). Everyone watches porn. You, me. Men, women. Old, young. Everyone. So don’t tsk tsk! Admit it!

Now, let’s start from the beginning. ‘Pornography’ comes from a mid 19th century Greek word pornographos which means ‘writing about prostitutes’. Surely prostitution, supposedly the world’s oldest profession, could not have survived this long if it hadn’t been written about. Even though the jury is still out on whether prostitution is in fact the oldest profession in the world, we now know that the originator of the phrase “the world’s oldest profession” was Rudyard Kipling. (Don’t miss the Indian connection. For the ignorant ones, Rudyard Kipling was born in Bombay). Now, his 1888 story about a prostitute begins like this: “Lalun is a member of the most ancient profession in the world.” (And if you thought he only wrote stories for children, well, so did I. Until now.)

Now, if Henry Kissinger was right about power being the greatest aphrodisiac, our Indian politicians are definitely living it up! Where you might ask do they indulge in watching pornography? In the State Assembly House. No less.

Earlier this February, three Indian politicians resigned after being caught watching porn on a mobile phone during a session of state parliament. Mind you, all three belong to a morally conservative party; at least they claim to be. What is more assuming is the portfolio each of these ministers hold. A regional TV channel’s footage showed Karnataka state Minister for Cooperation Laxman Savadi sharing a porn clip with his colleague CC Patil, the minister for women and child development, while sitting in the state assembly. The owner of the phone was State Minister for Ports, Science and Technology Krishna Palemar.

So as my topsy-turvy mind understands it, Mr. Savadi, true to his vocation (fancy, eh?) as a ‘Cooperation’ minister believes in the good habit of sharing. He shares the said porn clip with none other than a minister for women and children. Undoubtedly, Mr. Patil is making great headway in matters concerning women and children. I like to believe he likes to get to the bottom of things. (No) pun intended! Sadly, for the third minister, he simply forgot how advance (in terms of zoom) the camera technology of news channels is.

So what is the most important thing we learn from this? Well, besides the fact that you could be sacked for something like this, is, as Twitter user @wastrelette puts it: “Buildings of state assembly have excellent Internet speeds.” (Wonder when the rest of us would get that)

Evidently, our politicians did not learn their lesson. Again this Tuesday, News channels broadcast footage showed Shankarbhai Chaudhary allegedly watching porn on a tablet computer with his colleague Jethabhai Bharwad while sitting in the state assembly. This is in the state that has banned alcohol consumption since 1961 as homage to Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi. Wonder what Gandhi would have had to say about this? Celibacy, anyone? Not important but certainly amusing is the fact these ministers belong to the same party as their Karnataka counterparts. Just saying!

However, as a result of further research, I have learnt that such incidents have not been limited to our Indian politicians. Their foreign counterparts have indulged in similar behaviour in the past.

A member of Italian ex PM Silvio Berlusconi’s party, Simeone di Cagno Abbresccia, was caught checking out women on a site for escorts during a parliament session. In his defense, he said he checked his messages and couldn’t help looking the pictures of the lovely girls. “My fingers slipped,” he is quoted to have said. Classic case of butter fingers, eh Minister?

Well, for now it seems that politicians simply cannot resist the lure of pornography. If you thought it ends here, read on.

Ilona Staller is the most famous of all porn stars-turned-politicians. The Hungary-born Ilona Staller was elected as a member of the Italian parliament in 1987. Treading the porn to politics path followed by a few other Italian porn actresses, Milly D’Abbraccio ran for a seat in Rome’s city council in 2008.  Must say, Italy definitely holds a deep connection there.

Marey Carey, who started her porn career with Playboy TV, contested the 2003 gubernatorial (relating to a governor) elections in California as a publicity stunt (Oh really! I thought otherwise #sarcasm). That’s not the awesome part. She in fact polled 11,179 votes and came tenth in a 135-candidate race. Furthermore, she also plans to contest for the post of the President of the United States in 2016.

 Best known for her debut in the cult 1972 porn film ‘Behind the Green Door’, Marilyn Chamber famously contested for the Vice President of the United States on the Personal Choice Party ticket. Later, she also contested in the 2008 US presidential election. Oh the beauty of American politics! (And I long held the belief that Indian politics was the most entertaining)

Well, since both politics and pornography elicit public interest (clearly, since you are still reading this) and controversy, we were naïve to think, “Never the twain shall meet” (Going back to Rudyard Kipling). I believe that the 40^th US President Ronald Reagan was only half-joking when he uttered the prophetic words: “Politics is supposed to be the second-oldest profession. I have come to realize that it bears a very close resemblance to the first.”

It was Ash Wednesday and I was standing outside Our Lady of Dolours church near Marine Lines station. Don’t tsk tsk and nod your head disapprovingly.  I know I should have arrived on time for Mass. But in my defense, I came immediately after a lecture, in fact left early from one. So don’t judge me.

Anyway, while Mass was on, my mind began to wander. Hear me out. I had Holy thoughts. At least at first. I wondered why this day was called Ash Wednesday.

For starters, for those who don’t know what happens on this day and why Catholics fuss over it. Here’s what you need to know. On Ash Wednesday, the priest at Mass applies ashes in the shape of the cross on the forehead of each member of the congregation, uttering the words, “For dust you are and to dust you shall return” (Genesis 3:19).  Dust haan? Shouldn’t we smear dust or moist soil on our forehead? More significant isn’t it?  Well, Christians are buried, aren’t we? Where does ash figure in? That’s after cremation, isn’t it? Well, I toyed with the idea of clarifying this doubt with my mother, but wiser counsels prevailed. Mother, for the record, does not approve my “questioning faith”.

Anyway, the phrase “For dust you are and to dust you shall return” is, supposedly, what God spoke to Adam and Eve after they eaten of the forbidden fruit and fallen into sin. These words indicated to our first parents the bitterest fruit of their sin, namely death. In the context of the Ash Wednesday imposition of ashes, they remind each penitent of their sinfulness and mortality, and, thus, their need to repent and get right with God before it is too late. The cross reminds each penitent of the good news that through Jesus Christ crucified there is forgiveness for all sins, all guilt, and all punishment.

How do I know this? Well, I may have reached late for Mass but I do pay attention to the sermon. All right! Some parts. I am human. The priest spoke about fasting, repenting and avoiding temptation. My mind begins to wander again. Clearly, I had already defaulted on the third part. Avoiding the temptation to be distracted during Mass. Strike one. Well, this time it was the priest’s fault. I had to reflect on what he just said.

That is when it struck me. Devil definitely has a damn good marketing strategy. It is called Temptation.

Well, the sound of it itself is so tempting. How easy it is to tempt people! What is hard is the effort that goes into avoiding it. Let’s take the best (meaning, hardest to resist) temptation. The temptation to engage in coitus (Looks like Sheldon Cooper from The Big Bang Theory is messing with my speech) whether it is pre marital or extra marital.

What has God to offer? Celibacy. The following explanation directed at ignorant mortals. Catholic priests and nuns take a vow of celibacy in order to serve God more effectively and faithfully. They take this vow very seriously. Well, at least most of them do. (Controlling my thoughts on the recent cases of pedophilic tendencies of certain priests. I’m in the church, I am practicing restraint. It’s Lent, for God sake!)

Sex versus Celibacy. Hmmm. Not such a tough decision. What a diabolical marketing strategy!

Moreover, just as automobiles undergo the Crash Test before the manufacturer is given the go-ahead for mass production, Satan (sounds more malevolent than Devil apart from better sound effect) decides to test the viability of his ‘Temptation’ marketing strategy on none other than Jesus himself. Oh the gall!

During Jesus’ forty days of fast and prayer in the desert, Satan tempted him. Not one to be beaten, Jesus, in one of his replies told Satan that Man could live on the Word of God alone. Take that Satan. Hah! Jesus tried to sell you the Word of God in return. Must hand it to him, Jesus may have been famished but he managed to dish out one of his one-liners.

Just then, I am jolted back into reality by “All to Jesus I surrender, all to him I freely give…” Oh God, the sermon ended some time back. Now I must pay attention. GET BEHIND ME SATAN, I’m on Jesus’ marketing team now!

( Though I am not deeply religious, I respect people’s faith in God. This article is written in jest. It is not meant to disrespect anyone’s beliefs or religion. Nor is it an attempt at blasphemy. I believe God will not be offended because he knows my pure intentions and he possesses a sense of humour. Something people should attempt at achieving some more of.)

1) I love to see the shock on a woman’s face when I say this.

“You are a woman (belonging to the female species they mean, it has nothing to do with my age or maturity) and you hate shopping?” they exclaim in horror. It is almost as if I let slip the unutterable. Even Professor Horace Slughorn was more tolerant of Harry Potter’s defiant insistence to call the Dark Lord, Voldemort. I love even more that grateful, almost thankful, look on a man’s face when I say this. I believe fondness for beer, wine or caviar for some is a matter of acquired taste. Well, shopping is my ‘acquired hate’. If you have been dragged along from one saree shop to another as a child, you would understand my exact sentiment.

2) The metal detector and frisking.

If I was a terrorist, what kind of a low self esteem terrorist would I have to be to plot blowing up your store? Not only do I have to put my bag through a screen for you to peek into the contents of my bag but I also have to be subject to being felt up each time I want to shop. Had I known, I would have been better dressed. Lastly, would you mind lending your metal detectors for use at our local railway stations or to the cops at the Gateway of India or to any other government building? The ones there, sure as hell, aren’t working.

3) The process of selection.

If you go to the shops selling clothes especially, they don’t usually have the clothes lined up on hangers for you to select. The clothes are all stacked up and the salesperson has to take them out to show you. Now, there are different breeds of salesmen. The first one will be the over-enthusiastic kind. Showing you every dress,  blissfully oblivious to your choice or your attempt to get him to hear what you actually want. The disinterested kind. These are generally the older salesmen. They will frown, grunt or swear under their breath and remain distracted. It is almost as if you are torturing them into showing you the new arrivals. The persistent kind. The kind that do not understand the word no or that walking away or out of the shop is not some cheap Bollywood movie trick of walking away hoping for your attention or constant pursuit. The snobbish kind. You would find this breed at outlets of international brands. They act as if they own or as if they can afford the over-priced clothing displayed to tempt  you. If you ask them for something in a bigger size, one look at you and they say, “Ma’am, I don’t think this is available in your size”. The nerve! Ah, but not without the polite Ma’am. The lecherous kind. The kind that think that your eyes or your mouth, used for asking them the prices, is two inches below your chin. Would where you are staring at pay for the f@#$ing clothes? Argg!

4) The big fight.

I am sorry but I belong to a civilized community of people who refuse to fight over a single piece of clothing. I am sure we have all witnessed the very entertaining sight of two women fighting over the same pair of shoes or even clothes. A word of caution: do not bother to intervene. It hardly ever helps and you never know when you would have to bear the brunt of it, especially husbands of the said women. Well, it could be looked upon as Darwin’s ‘survival of the fittest’ presentation on display, flat 50% off.

5) The changing room.

Well, don’t we have enough queues to wait in already? Once you do get inside after an annoying wait, you think it gets better. How naïve! I am no Kim Kardashian or Gisele Bündchen. I don’t know if it is just me or that those mirrors coupled with the unflattering (for mere mortals, you and me) lighting in those rooms magnifies every tiny blemish on your face. Moreover, just in case you thought you din’t need to thread your eyebrows or remove that hint of a moustache, well, this Queen’s mirror from Snow White hell, will remove all your doubts.

6) Disappointment and depression.

Not moneywise dummy. What are boyfriends, husbands or credit cards for? It is about not finding the right size of clothing to fit you. After that life transforming trip to the changing room, you realise you need the next size of that dress. In case you are not lucky enough to find that size, not only does it suck to be deprived of something you really like but you are also reminded that you are umm…how should I put it?…corpulent or healthy or visibly prosperous perhaps?

7) Overhearing the not-so-kind words that the salesmen have to say about previous customers.

It makes you wonder what they would have to say about you. Mostly, women are guilty of this. They bitch about the previous customer’s towering heels and how obnoxious she looked in them or worse the fact that someone older was wearing clothes meant for a teenager. Ouch! Wonder what they would have to say about me? Loser who can’t decide what to buy?

8) The minor heart attack knowing the price of the item.

Don’t get me wrong, I love bargaining. I go all out at Linking road, Causeway, Hill road, Chor Bazaar. But, in a mall or for that matter Shoppers Stop, Globus, Lifestyle or Westside or the million malls opening each day in Mumbai, you just have to suck it up and pay. Luckily, you have the price tag attached to the clothes, so you can save face by proclaiming to have not liked the colour as your reason for not buying that item.

9) Payments counter woes.

My luck ensures that I will be fatally attracted to the store’s slowest queue. I am Murphy’s law personified. Not only will I have to wait long for my turn, the moment I reach the counter, their stupid bill machine will begin to act up. Then the process of digging for the membership card, them discovering certain item have no tags (not my fault), the not-so-friendly and impatient store personnel and the sometimes incompetent staff who find it absolutely necessary to chat among themselves while I wait to settle the bill. Just my luck!

10) The pestering sales representative selling membership cards.

Ok, if I really would like to be a member of this store, I will approach you. Your constant harassment will not earn points in favour of your store. Not only will these sales representatives bore you with the details of the benefits of becoming a member, they will never remember that they had approached you the last time you shopped there. Eventually, just to get rid of them, you will enroll as the member. Not too bad a way to ensure someone becomes a member. Try try till you succeed or the more appropriate (in this case) harass harass till they relent. Wonder which MBA school teaches one that?

Oh by the way, all the above mentioned stores have sales going on this week. Happy shopping for those seeking some retail therapy. How do I know? I am a member, remember?

Dressed in a full-sleeve purple shirt and contrasting beige pants, he stands in the corner. All around him hoards of weekend shoppers are busy with their purchase. Beads of sweat trickle down his face. He glances nervously at his watch and looks expectantly towards the entrance door, his eyes scanning the crowds. A thin frame in the distance catches his eye. Could it be her?  As the individual draws closer, he looks again and his face betrays a smile - a relief. This is it. This is the moment. This is the encounter he has waited for all his life. For twenty-one long years. She is here. Finally here.

She notices the man. Middle-aged. He looks vaguely familiar. He appears to be looking for someone. Their eyes meet and she knows it is ‘Him’. She walks towards him with conflicting emotions raging inside her. Her legs wobbly, her stomach churning, her heart beating at an unimaginable rate. Did she have it in her? Should she walk away? She had rehearsed for this day a million times but somehow all those practiced lines seemed to evade her. What was the point? Her preparation felt vain. The sight of ‘Him’ waiting for her was something she couldn’t have possibly prepared herself for.

Like two perfect strangers, they found themselves seating at a tiny table of a coffee shop. Strangers estranged by the vacuum each had left in the other’s life. Silence. Awkward silence flowed between them. What would they possibly say? What words would be adequate to describe what they felt? Emotions had names. But what would a range of emotions gushing like the waters of a river meeting the sea, be called?

Then, just like a cloud that bursts into a heavy torrent, so did ‘He’. Not knowing what else to say, he began the story of his life. The part of his life that had no place for her in it, she reminded herself.

He narrated his story. The story of their separation all those years ago. She asked him to explain some parts in detail. She had a lot of questions for him. He had twenty-one years to account for.

He answered each one of her questions. Some questions required him to revisit his darkest, most painful memories. He obliged her.

 She was not ready for the answers. She wanted to know all the reasons but she wasn’t ready for the pain they caused her. Their separation was the constant focus of her life. Her constant obsession. Her constant pain.

They sat there deep in conversation. Discussing life, love, forgiveness. She had discovered new meanings of these words. She sat across him staring at the man. She could feel his heartache, his longing, his hurt. She had her own heart to pacify, her own longing to quell, her own hurt to nurse.

 She had so much in common with this stranger - DNA, blood, traits - but somehow there was something amiss. The encounter had failed to conjure up a sense of belonging within her.

Dejected, she prepared to leave. It had indeed been an extraordinary day for her.              

She hailed a taxi. He stood by her side her seeing her off. Stoic. Controlled. Unemotional.

She din’t know whether she wanted this again. She din’t know whether he wanted this again.

As the taxi began to move, she turned to catch a glimpse of him. Last one perhaps.

There he was. Transfixed at that place, tears swelling up in his eyes, blowing a kiss in her direction. That exact instant tears came down the sides of her face in great cascades. For in that moment, the stranger who had called himself her father had suddenly become HER father.

If you are left with lot of time on your hands and feel adventurous and geeky at the same time, Google teaches you to swear, what words to use and their detailed explanation. But there is nothing to help you in situations when certain swear words have a different meaning, leaving you red-faced. Therefore, I took it upon myself to educate myself and others (in this case, you.) about the often-used word: FUCK.

Imagine my surprise to learn that the word ‘Fuck’ is one of the few words that has legitimate colloquial usage as a verb, adverb, adjective, command, conjunction, exclamatory, noun, pronoun, imperative and interjection. Oh my! This is definitely something my grammar teacher forgot to tell me. Don’t believe it? Look it up on Wikipedia. Where do you think I start all my research?

Want a Quick Fuck? Before your mind goes spiralling into a series of umm…thoughts, let me explain.

A Quick Fuck is a layered shooter (An alcoholic mixed drink that contains between 25 ml and 100 ml of two or more spirits.) made from one part coffee liqueur like Kahlua, one part cold Midori liqueur and one part Bailey’s Irish Cream. Reminded you of the time that hot cocktail waitress came up to you and asked whether you prefer Sex on the Beach? Well, similar ball game.

Fucking (apparently its German pronunciation [ˈfʊkɪŋ] rhymes with “booking”, ya right, who are they kidding?) is an Austrian village in the municipality of Tarsdorf, in western Upper Austria.

This place is quite famous for its road signs. Little wonder why. One version of the sign features the village name with an additional sign beneath it, with the words “Bitte – nicht so schnell!” (“Please — not so fast!”). There is another lower sign that features an illustration of two children and is meant to advise drivers to watch their speed. These Austrians have taken this too far!

Did you know there is a computer thing (geek alert!) called The Brain Fuck Scheduler (BFS). No.

Well, it is certainly not a filter that helps you count the number of times someone stalks you online. In fact, it is a task scheduler designed for the Linux kernel as an alternative to the Completely Fair Scheduler and the O(1) scheduler. Ahan what? Exactly! This certainly fucked my brain (true to its name I see) so I thought it would be fun to let it mess with your head as well.

So, now walk into a bar in Fucking with your head held high. Order a Quick Fuck with a mischievous and inviting smile on your face and blow someone’s mind with your Brain Fuck Scheduler knowledge.

 Rohan was busy exploring the world around him. He made extensive use of his tiny hands and legs and at times his tiny mouth, often all at once, to experiment with objects that seemed alien to him. Kavya had managed to baby-proof most of the house but Rohan was always successful in locating some spot she had missed. 

Everyday seemed like a battlefield where Rohan was the infantry soldier always searching for new battlegrounds, Kavya, the military medical assistant forever nursing Rohan’s ‘war-inflicted’ injuries or cleaning after him and Rohit, Rohan’s doting father,  the military chief, who enjoyed listening to Kavya’s animated recounting of the war that took place in the bedroom or parlour each day. The retelling of the day’s account took place while they tried to put their little soldier, tired after his hectic day at the battlefield, to sleep. 

But April 16 was a special day. It was the day Rohan turned three. Kavya had to literally push Rohit out of the house to attend his meetings because he just did not feel like leaving his son alone on his special day. Kavya knew that if father and son got together she would get no time to clean the house without them disrupting her schedule.

There was a party planned in the evening and Kavya wanted to make sure her house looked spotless. She had always been a neatness freak and was scurrying about in the house to ensure every inch was prim and proper.

She almost had a fit when she found Rohan clapping at his new discovery. He had been successful in opening one of the lowest drawers of her bed-side chest. The chest was something she had overlooked for the past two years. She would have loved to scan through the actual contents of the chest but her little soldier left her with time to do little else.

Rohan was fidgeting with a tiny wooden box. She was amazed looking at him carrying what looked like a slightly heavy box. But she stopped in her tracks when she realized which box it was. Her heart stopped momentarily as her entire life, her past with Siddharth, flashed before her eyes in that instant. Her knees felt wobbly and she sank into the bed. She gently took the box away from Rohan who looked up in protest. She managed to distract him by giving him a colourful plastic cup in return for his ‘treasure’.

Fighting tears and curiosity in the same breath, she opened the box. The box Siddharth had called ‘My final place’. Siddharth had kept this box with him all the time and was very secretive about it. Aware of Kavya’s inquisitiveness, he had given her clear instructions to leave the box alone.

But all that did not matter anymore. Though Kavya had always been keen to know what the box contained, she had managed to keep her control and never opened the box. Until this day.

She had no idea about Siddharth’s whereabouts nor did anyone around her. She did not know if he was alive or dead. Not that she cared, she reminded herself.

“Liar,” she let out in a low voice. She knew that, as much as she hated herself for it, a part of her always loved him.

Pushing these disturbing thoughts into the far recesses of her mind, she released the latch of the box with trembling fingers. The lid sprang open to reveal a key and a large white envelope, now yellowed with age. Her heart pounding inside her chest she opened the envelope. It contained a stack of legal documents and a letter. Tossing the documents aside without a second look at them, she began to read the letter.

 “My dearest Kavya,

You are and will always be the only and most precious woman in my life. You taught me what love was. Being with you taught me what it felt to be in love with the same person over and over again, each day of my life.”

Unable to read any further through the screen of tears that had welled up in her eyes; she quickly wiped them on her sleeve and continued to read.

“I am extremely ashamed of myself and thoroughly sorry for the way I treated you during our last months together. It pained me to watch the disbelief in your eyes and to see tears in those eyes. You did not deserve to be treated that way. But I had no choice, I was helpless.

When I had gone to meet the doctor for Amma’s surgery, I made a passing reference to the infrequent but acute pain that I used to experience in my stomach, occasionally. However, the doctor suggested certain tests to ascertain the actual cause of the problem. Several tests later, she called me to her office. She sat me down and explained the cause of my pain. I had colon cancer.

The world stopped around me and I just stared at her in disbelief. Regaining my composure, I pressed her for details. She told me that the cancer had advanced to the final stage. I reasoned with her saying that the pain was quite recent. She asked me whether I was vomiting or lost weight recently. I explained that both were stress related. She just kept quiet.

Defeated, I asked her about my options and she suggested removing a part of the colon, followed by chemotherapy. But she warned me that this would not be a lasting solution. The surgery would just prolong my survival. She suggested that I prepare for the surgery at the earliest.

I sat staring at my reports and my thoughts drifted to you. Surely, you did not deserve to become a widow at such an early age. You did not deserve to spend the initial years of our marriage taking care of a man destined to die. I could not bear the thought of you running around hospitals to ensure that I live just a little bit longer.

There, in that office, I made up my mind. I would not let you go through this kind of anguish. You would not have to take care of a dying man. I loved you too much to put you through something like that.

I announced my decision to the doctor. I was not interested in surgery, I wanted some pain-killers to make the pain bearable. She was thoroughly disappointed and tried hard to persuade me to change my decision but I refused to hear any of it. I had too little time left to spend in self-pity. I had to make sure that you would sail through life smoothly even if I could not be there by your side.

I could not tell anyone about my situation because you would hear of it eventually. I knew that you would leave no stone unturned to ensure that I survive and get better. But I couldn’t put you through all that. I just couldn’t. So I came up with a plan to ensure that you would hate me soon enough and not be hurt by my absence.

I had to go out of my way to cause you pain. Each time I saw the hurt expression on your face, it killed me. But I had to keep up my act. I hope you will find it in your heart to forgive me for all the pain. For my sake. For your sake.

I do not have much to give you Kavya, in return for the love you showered on me. But do accept a small token of my love. The key in this chest is the key to the house in Bangalore that you always admired. I remember how your eyes used to light up each time we passed that gorgeous bungalow on the way to Amma’s house. During the unplanned and frequent so-called ‘business trips’ that caused you so much anxiety, I got in touch with some property dealers and bought that house. Luckily for me, the owners were migrating to the US and the house was put up for sale. I couldn’t believe my luck. The house was meant to be yours Kavya.

I spent the next few months furnishing the house. I tried so hard to make it everything you had described as your dream house. I hope you like it. The house is under the care of my assistant Amrita, who was the only one who knew about my condition besides the doctor. That is why I had to spend a lot of time with her. I had to make it look like something was going on between us; it was all part of my plan. I do feel sorry for her that you hated her so much for nothing. Poor girl! I was present at her wedding also but I kept this secret from you, so you would not get suspicious about anything.

Enough about that.

Kavya, please accept this house, your house. I don’t know when you will find this letter or if you will find it at all. As a safeguard, I have instructed Amrita to send you the documents of the house and another set of keys after a gap of five years. I hope it doesn’t take you so long to see your dream house.

Kavya, I need you to reciprocate my love by raising a lovely family of your own. Be with someone who can promise to be with you until the end. You deserve all the happiness in the world.

Kavya, just know that I have always loved you and you are special.Take care of yourself, my love. Have a beautiful life. Live to be an old grandmother running after her grandchildren. Oh! you would be such a great mum, Kavya.

Kavya, I love you. I have always loved you and will always love you. Now and even after I am gone.

Forever.

                                                                     Lots of blessings,

                                                                      Your Siddharth.”

Kavya sat on her bed, face streamed with tears, holding the final memory of  Siddharth in her hands. She lifted Rohan in her arms and as she soothed him, she felt like a stone had been lifted from her heart.

Siddharth, in his own unique and twisted manner, had made her feel whole again. She was glad that she loved him the way she did. Her questions answered, her doubts cleared, her conscience appeased, she could live life again, knowing she was right in believing that Siddharth, the kind of man she had fallen in love with, could never break her heart.

Closure: Tranquil.Liberating.Complete.

In the months following her surgery, Amma had begun to grow irritable and wanted Siddharth, her only son, to shift to Bangalore permanently. Though both Kavya and Siddharth’s work was based in Mumbai, Kavya was open to the idea of relocation. Skeptical but willing. Skeptical because Amma had never really thought highly of Siddharth’s decision of ‘no-dowry’ when he married Kavya. Though the families knew each other, Amma was of the opinion that Kavya’s parents should have insisted on giving a dowry. Amma had made some not-so-subtle remarks about the same on several occasions when they had family gatherings. Though Kavya was extremely gracious despite the comments, she never really felt comfortable around Amma. She never let Siddharth hear of Amma’s comments. She cared about Amma knowing how much Siddharth loved her as well as Amma and she would never put him in a spot where he would have to take sides. Willing because Kavya thought it would be a good opportunity to improve her relationship with Amma. She could take care of her and nurse her back into health and then hope that Amma doesn’t continue to hold the dowry issue against her.

Siddharth would never have pushed Kavya to relocate. He was aware of the tension between her and Amma in spite of Kavya not informing him about their not-so-pleasant encounters. He was all too aware of Amma’s feelings towards Kavya. In fact it had nothing to do with the dowry. Amma had wanted Siddharth to marry her friend’s daughter Aishwarya. Though Amma knew of Siddharth’s love for Kavya, she was always pushing him to meet Aishwarya. When Siddharth refused to take things any further with her and made known his decision to marry Kavya, Amma had created a scene. But Siddharth stood firm and since Appa had always been fond of Kavya, things were in favour of Kavya. But Amma had never really accepted Kavya. Siddharth’s insistence on the dowry issue gave Amma another reason to dislike Kavya. Aware of all this and worried that things could escalate between them, Siddharth had made a conscious decision to settle in Mumbai.

Siddharth and Kavya often visited Amma and Appa in Bangalore. But after Amma’s surgery, Siddharth was required to make several trips to Bangalore. His worry for Amma and the constant travelling was beginning to take a toll on his health. In the past month alone, he had lost weight and looked quite stressed. Also, airline food never agreed with his weak stomach. Kavya was constantly worrying about his deteriorating health and kept insisting Siddharthto take better care of himself. She suggested that they shift to Bangalore but Siddharth thought it would make things too complicated. He preferred the distance but Kavya was becoming increasingly paranoid about his health. The growing distance and lack of time together caused friction between them

To make matters worse, Siddharth was newly promoted and his workload began to expand. He acquired a new secretary Amrita to assist him. Amrita was a fresh college graduate driven by ambition. She was quite efficient and Deepak was a doting boss. Siddharth used to joke about Amrita being his work-wife just to irk Kavya. Due to the escalating friction between Siddharth and her, Amrita’s name constantly figured in their domestic fights. Kavya hated her. She had her reasons. Kavya was always particular about packing Siddharth’s clothes for his trips and preparing his schedule. He enjoyed doing it. When Amrita took over his schedule duty, only for reasons of convenience, it incensed Kavya’s dislike towards her.

As months went by, Siddharth had to make frequent out-of-town trips. Most often, he was accompanied by Amrita. Kavya was never comfortable with this. She knew it in her heart that Siddharth would never betray her trust but it never really calmed her. One day, just on a whim, she dialed his office to know the time of his flight so that she could surprise him by receiving him at the airport. The office staff informed her that Siddharth had taken the day off for personal reasons while Siddharth had informed her of a business meeting scheduled out of town. She dismissed this incident as a genuine miscommunication on his part and did not make it an issue. But it troubled her. Kavya and Siddharth had always followed a set rule for their married life –which meant that they would never go to bed without resolving their conflict. But this began to change.

In the following months, Kavya learnt of many such ‘business trips’ and she finally decided to confront Siddharth. One evening, she cornered Siddharth while he was watching the news after dinner.

“Siddharth, I need to talk to you about Amrita,” she said in a sad voice. Siddharth just switched the television off and got up.

“Look Kavya, I am too tired to talk about anything. I have a lot going on with work. This is not a good time. Amrita is a nice girl. Learn to deal with your insecurities,” he murmured and left.

Kavya was hurt by his cool dismissal of her.She began to feel that he did not care enough about her anymore. She often spent the nights crying. She knew that Siddharth was aware of her sobbing through the nights. It further distressed her that he was being so indifferent towards her. She was aghast at this drastic change in his behavior.

The maddening suspicion that Siddharth was having an affair with Amrita welled up inside her like venom. She tried to broach the topic several times but Siddharth continued to remain evasive. Their arguments began to get ugly.

“You are having an affair with her, aren’t you? Why can’t you just admit it?” Kavya screamed at Siddharth.

 In a fit of rage,Siddharth turned around and slapped Kavya. It was the first time Siddharth had laid his hand on her.

 It was not like him at all. But he wasn’t quite himself lately. She didn’t know what to believe anymore.

Hurt beyond words, Kavya packed her bags and left for her parent’s house in Pune. She had vowed never to return to the house until Siddharth apologized and came to get her. However, she never discussed the problem with her parents who assumed she had come for a holiday.

A week passed. Then another. Kavya had put her phone aside and there had been no communication between them over the past two weeks.When Siddharth still failed to show up Kavya began to worry.

When her worry about him began to escalate, Kavya just had to see him in person to know that he was well. She caught the earliest flight out to Mumbai to check on him. She feared that something had gone horribly wrong with him. She blamed herself for not being there for him when he was stressed. She wanted to apologise for her constant nagging and make up for the lost time.

She raced through the airport, passing through security and baggage in a mad rush. She reached home. She was perplexed to hear loud music playing in her house. Confused and further worried, she rang the bell. The door opened and there stood a leaner, an almost frail, version of Siddharth. Hair disheveled, shirt unbuttoned, jeans stained with some liquid, food crumbs around his mouth. There was an overwhelming stench of alcohol coming from him. She took it all in. But she was flabbergasted by the sight of a cigarette dangling between his fingers as he stood by the door, inebriated and out-of-control. Nothing like the man she left behind two weeks ago. Just an outrageous version of him.

She had been worried about his health and all this while Siddharth was enjoying his recent ‘bachelorhood’. She did not know what to make out of all this. She was hurt, numb inside, to see Siddharth engage in such behaviour. He occasionally enjoyed a glass of wine or scotch but he couldn’t stand the sight, far less the smell, of a cigarette.

On seeing her standing by the door, Siddharth grabbed hold of her waist and kissed her. Rather forcefully.He held her too tight; it hurt her.

Kavya was disgusted by him and his use of force action enraged her.In the living room, she noticed some of Siddharth’s colleagues in the living room. It looked like they had been drinking for a while. She couldn’t take it anymore. She smacked him right across his face. Disgusted,she turned to leave.

“Walk out of here and never come back again. Who do you think you are, bitch?” Siddharth bellowed behind her. “You think you are the only one who loves me. Women adore me Kavya. Oh, you have no idea,” he sniggered at her.

Kavya stood transfixed for a brief moment. She turned to face Siddharth and using all her strength to keep her voice steady, said, “Well, that is a good thing for you Siddharth because never again will I be the one to love you. You are the not the man I fell in love with anymore. You have changed into some kind of a monster. I tried so hard trying to make things work between us but you weren’t even remotely interested.”

Fighting a strong urge to scream and cry, she continued,“I never want to see your face again.How can you be this way Siddharth? Nobody deserves to be treated this way Siddharth. Nobody.” Kavya broke into uncontrollable sobs before running out of the house. Their house. Never to return again.

Kavya and Siddharth had a quick divorce. Everyone who knew them was shocked to learn about their separation. Nobody really knew their reasons for the breakup. Kavya never volunteered any details about their breakup and avoided discussed him or their divorce.Siddharth had not even bothered to come to court for their divorce hearing. His lawyer had represented him citing ill health of his client. Kavya had never felt more humiliated in her life.

She hated Siddharth for everything he had put her through. She was still not able to really figure out what had gone wrong between them. In the months following their split, she constantly went over each and every detail of their married life in her mind. She had completely failed to come up with a solid explanation for his behaviour.

Each time she thought of him or something reminded her of him, it felt like a thousand knives pierced through her all at once. She felt like her breath was knocked out of her. Her entire world would crumble before her. She wanted to let out a scream but nothing came out of her throat. She felt exposed. Vulnerable. Alone. Left out to die.

Tears welled up in her eyes but she refused to let them flow out. She was afraid that crying would diminish the pain. The pain she refused to let go off. The pain that was necessary to feed the hatred she felt towards him. The pain meant that a part of her still wanted to cling to his memory.

Siddharth: Betrayer.  Bastard. Wrecker of her heart.

Kavya’s parents felt miserable to see her in this state. They could have done anything to help her out of her misery. Several marriage proposals came for her. Despite becoming a shadow of her former self, Kavya was still very attractive. She flatly refused to entertain any proposal.

Slowly, Kavya’s mum’s health began to deteriorate. She constantly worried about Kavya’s future. While Kavya nursed her back to health, her mum made Kavya promise her that she would consider marriage. Kavya could agree to anything to see her mum well again.

Rohit, Kavya’s childhood friend, was interested in marrying her. He had liked Kavya since her college days but never expressed his love for her. Now, he wanted to be there for Kavya.To take of her.To provide for her.To help her regain herself - her true self: The happy, beaming Kavya.

Kavya ensured Rohit knew every detail about her past. She wanted to make sure that he really understood where she was coming from. She also tried to dissuade him from marrying her but Rohit loved her too much to let her go. He accepted the fact that Kavya would never be able to love him as much as she loved Siddharth. He was willing to make that sacrifice believing that his love for her would make her change her mind after all.

And it did.

Three years later…

Does Kavya meet Siddharth again? What was the actual reason for Siddharth’s behaviour? Would Kavya ever forgive him? Read on…

“What will you do if I die?” purred Kavya as she nestled her head into his shoulders. She craned her neck just in time to check his expression. She loved teasing Siddharth and she smiled inwardly at his mock exasperation at her question.

Siddharth looked at her, his eyes piercing into hers and said, “I would die of a broken heart.” The genuineness with which he said these words brought a tear to her eye. He leaned in for a kiss and when their lips met; it was the same head-whirling excitement she felt when Siddharth kissed her for the first time.

It had taken place in the garage behind her building. Deserted.Inconspicuous.Convenient.The perfect location for a first-kiss. The heavy thunder outside matched the intensity of her heart pounding inside her chest. Still slightly drenched she looked into Siddharth’s eyes and could see her own passion reflected in his eyes. Unable to restrain herself any longer, she pulled him closer. Standing on her toes to match his height, she reached for his mouth. She kissed him with such passion that when she was done she collapsed into his arms. Siddharth always teased her about the fact that she was the one who had kissed him first and it was not the other way around.

That was then. Now, sitting in the flight on seat number 20 H, beside the man to whom she was married for over a year, it felt better. ‘20 H’. It was a number that indicated her many firsts. It was the same seat number as the one on her flight to Andaman and Nicobar Islands. First flight; first time as a married woman; first honeymoon. She chuckled at the direction her thoughts had taken.

All of a sudden, Siddharth pulled himself away and commented, “Or maybe I should marry that hot doctor we met during Amma’s surgery. She was quite nice and seemed interested in me. No? Hmmm…”He loved to see the sudden flaring of her nostrils and her narrowed eyes, her ‘death-stare’ he called it, when Kavya was angry or madly jealous. He chortled at his own comment, not fully prepared for a hard punch Kavya was about to deliver. She punched his side and Siddharth, still torn between laughing and wincing in pain, managed to lock her arms. He tried to calm her and held her tight, whispering into her ears, “A thousand pretty women like her would still not be able to compete with your beauty.” Kavya could not help but blush at that line which worked well to dissipate her jealousy.

They were on their way back home from visiting Siddharth’s cousins in Bangalore. The same people who were responsible for introducing Siddharth to Kavya four years ago. Siddharth’s first cousin Riya and Kavya were best friends. Riya had invited Kavya for her house-warming party where Siddharth was present. Siddharth was smitten by Kavya at first sight. Draped in a traditional Keralite half saree with a rich golden border,her long tresses were adorned with Mogra flowers. Her slow and careful walk gave the impression that she had practiced a great deal to avoid falling while ‘managing’ her saree. It made her look so innocent, vulnerable and courageous all at the same time. Stunning. Of course! And boy was Siddharth floored. He couldn’t keep his eyes off her during the ceremony. Riya kept rolling her eyes at Siddharth’s infatuation and blatant expression of his feelings while she also brought it to the notice of Kavya.Teasing and nudging her to react. Kavya managed to maintain an uninterested look on her face the entire day and ignored Riya’s remarks. Though her eyes constantly flitted towards the tall and visibly fit guy who looked oh-so-handsome in his Kasavumundu. Riya had pointed towards him several times and said his name was Siddharth. However, Kavya had to look away each time to avoid meeting his eyes, scared that her own eyes would betray her feelings for him.

Eventually, fed up of Siddharth’s relentless insistence on being introduced to Kavya, Riya arranged for them to meet the next day. Siddharth stole Kavya’s heart with his charm and they had been together ever since. Given that the two families knew each other well, Kavya and Siddharth faced little opposition to their marriage.

They had been happily married just over a year. One year, five months and eight days, to be precise, Kavya counted, laughing at her own silliness. Everything was going so perfectly well. Too perfectly. In fact it scared her sometimes. She always feared that something would go wrong between them. Her fears were always brushed aside by Siddharth who would tell her to stop over-thinking and over analyzing things.

But Kavya’s worst fears were about to come true.

Who comes in between Siddharth and Kavya? Would it threaten to destroy their marriage? What is Siddharth’s big secret? Read on…

A contentious issue…in these so called modern times,
Is death really warranted…as justice for crimes?
Perhaps it is only God…whom a life can take?
Is it indeed a grave social error we make?

The dilemma simmers…legions stand to oppose,
Legal murder…is it a moral aberration…who knows?
A deterrent…the legalists are quick to cry,
Yet is it right for us to kill…and for them to die?

No one indeed…has the right to kill!
Yet many lands…cleave to their draconian laws still.
The whole scenario leaves a bitter taste in the soul,
A disturbing disquiet of conscience…as death takes a toll.

Vengeance or justice…one indeed has to ask?
Does law lack morality…should it be taken to task?
Does death right a wrong?…Hell no I would state,
Have we the right on anyone…to pronounce such a fate?

The arguments rage…both against and for,
Many applaud capital punishment…many abhor.
I simply fear…what if fallible law makes a dire mistake?
And an innocent life…they brutally take.

Is not capital punishment…a form of murder itself?
Is it not time…these laws were placed on history’s shelf?
One innocent life…the risk just cannot be taken,
Only God can take life…let us not be mistaken!

“The Chief Jailor would open the page which contains the details of the condemned prisoner whose account is being closed and ask him questions in order to check the entries. He will be asked for his name, that of his father, his village and other details and after comparing the distinguishing marks on the body of the condemned man he would say, “ my friend, the president has rejected your mercy plea. Therefore, you will be hanged at 5:30 in the morning. Pray to God, if you want to pass on any information to your relatives and friends, I will make the necessary arrangements. These messages could be transmitted by telegram or you can use the post cards or envelopes that I will provide.

Some will cry out aloud; they will blabber about many things.  They will beg of anyone they see, to rescue them from death. Tears will roll down in cascades from their eyes. The authorities will tell them to repeat the holy names of the Gods. But, on realizing that even Gods would not be able to save them, they will begin wailing once again. They will have no stamina even to stand up. The legs totter. The whole body is weak, yes, that is the fear of death.”

-          Excerpt from ‘In the shadows of the Gallows’

This is not a scene from a classic piece of drama but the reality behind the ritual leading up to the gallows in a Indian prison.

India is one among the very few countries that retains the death penalty. Carried out by hanging, the death sentence is awarded in the “rarest of rare” cases. A 1983 judgment stated that hanging did not involve torture, barbarity, humiliation or degradation. Doesn’t the ghastly sight of a man, whose limp body lay suspended with his tongue handing outside his mouth, depict the ultimate dishonour of a human being’s dignity?

However, those in favour of capital punishment (retentionists) believe that this is a small price to pay for the heinous crimes committed by the convicts. Moreover, ‘doing away’ with hardened criminals as compared to keeping them in jail for life seems to them, more economical. Can the worth and dignity of a human life be measured in monetary terms?  All of it boils down to how much we value a human life, murderer or otherwise.

Another argument supporting the death penalty is its usage as a deterrent for crimes. A survey of research findings on the relation between death penalty and homicide rates, conducted for the United Nations in 1988 and revised in 1996, concluded that “Research has failed to provide scientific proof that executions have a greater deterrent effect than life imprisonment and such proof is unlikely to be forthcoming. The evidence as a whole still gives no positive support to the deterrent hypothesis…” 

Minds of young children, once innocent, like that of Ajmal Kasab have been desensitized to the point where human life holds no value, creating the new crop of ‘suicide-bombers’. For someone, who was all ready to die for his cause, would death penalty really have any credible impact or act as a deterrent for others-to-follow?

Some retentionists argue that any punishment less than death penalty is an insult to the victim and society. Survivors as well as the family of the victims strongly condemn the murderer’s act of killing. How then, is it logical for them to demand a similar deed be performed by the authorities? The internationally renowned God man Osho believes “The death penalty is an eye for an eye. If a man is thought to have murdered somebody, then he should be murdered. But it is strange. If killing somebody is a crime, then how can you remove crime from society by committing the same crime again. There was one man murdered; now there are two men murdered”.

The cause of Human Rights is the most powerful argument that favours those fighting for abolishment capital punishment. Death penalty deprives the Right to life and to fundamental freedoms. Acknowledging this, a statement by the American Civil Liberties Union National Office reads, “Capital punishment is a barbaric remnant of an uncivilized society. It is immoral in principal, and unfair and discriminatory in practice. It assures the execution of some innocent people. As a remedy for crime, it has no purpose and no effect.” On 15 November 2007, a committee of the United Nations General Assembly voted to back a resolution calling for a global moratorium on executions.

Shouldn’t a man or a woman who has perpetrated a horrendous crime deserve a chance to reform themselves? Are they not human? It is good to remember: ‘Every saint has a past and every sinner has a future.’

Save an individual’s right to live.

Support abolition of death penalty in India.

Well, nothing much except that some people will be so paralyzed with fear they simply won’t get out of bed. Others will steadfastly refuse to fly on an airplane, buy a house, or act on a hot stock tip. It’s Friday the 13th, and they’re freaked out.

You wonder why. Haven’t you watched enough horror movies to know that a whole lot of them have ‘Friday’ and ‘13’ all over their plot? Some fixation!

Well, Donald E. Dossey, a folklore historian and author of Holiday Folklore, Phobias and Fun believes that fear of Friday the 13^th is rooted in ancient, separate bad-luck associations with the number 13 and the day Friday. The two unlucky entities ultimately combined to make one super unlucky day.

What’s wrong with 13?

Apparently (according to a Scandinavian legend), Loki, one of the most evil of the Norse gods, gatecrashed a party for 12 at Valhalla, a heavenly banquet for the gods (Gods and their egos!). Moreover, Loki tricked Hoder, the blind, into shooting a mistletoe-tipped arrow at Balder, the beautiful and good. Following Balder’s death, the earth was plunged into darkness and all of Earth mourned as the good and right disappeared. It was an awfully unlucky day. Since then, the number 13 has been considered ominous and foreboding.

According to Thomas Fernsler, an associate policy scientist in the Mathematics at the University of Delaware, numerologists consider 12 a “complete” number. There are 12 months in a year, 12 signs of the zodiac, 12 gods of Olympus, 12 labours of Hercules, 12 tribes of Israel, and 12 apostles of Jesus, 12 Descendants of Muhammad Imams, whereas the number thirteen is considered irregular, transgressing this completeness.

Also ruining it for the number 13 is the fact that the number of guests at the party of the Last Supper was 13, with the 13th guest being Judas, the traitor.

You thought it stops there. Hold on. The 13th Tarot Card is the Grim Reaper. There are 13 steps leading to the gallows. 13 turns make a traditional hangman’s noose. Ancient Romans regarded the number 13 as destruction, evil and misfortune. A witch’s coven consists of 13 members, 13^th one being the Devil, no less.

What’s wrong with Friday?

The name Friday comes from Old English Frīġedæġ, meaning the ‘Day of Frigg’. Now, Frigg (or Frigga) was a major goddess in Norse paganism, a subset of Germanic paganism. She was the free spirited goddess of love and fertility, also described as having the power of prophecy yet she does not reveal what she knows (Uncommon for a woman but then again she was a goddess). Now the drama. When Norse and Germanic tribes converted to Christianity, Frigga was labeled a witch and banished in shame to a mountaintop. It was believed that every Friday, the spiteful goddess (hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, remember that before you mess with the female species again) convened a meeting with 11 other witches, plus the devil—for a total of 13—and plotted evil and disastrous events for the upcoming week. For many centuries in Scandinavia, Friday was called the “Witches’ Sabbath.” (I wonder how the Jews would have reacted to this. Oh! I forgot this was part of a Germanic legend. Sorry!)

As if this wasn’t enough, not to be left behind, some biblical scholars believe that Eve tempted Adam with the forbidden fruit on a Friday. Perhaps more significant is a belief that Abel was slain by Cain on Friday the 13^th or that this is the day a confusion of tongues struck at the Tower of Babel or the day when the Temple of Solomon toppled. (Jesus! My bad, he wasn’t born yet)

So, Friday is considered to be a particularly unlucky day on which to undertake anything that represented the beginning of a new venture. Beginning a sea voyage or any journey is a big no-no. Giving birth? Apparently, a child born on a Friday (God forbid midnight or 3 a.m.- courtesy the movies) has special powers to communicate with supernatural beings like ghosts, demons, evil spirits, the whole jingbang. Wonder whatever happened to vampires, werewolves or lycans. Edward Cullen (vampire in Twilight), Jacob Black (werewolf in Twilight), Selene (vampire in Underworld) or Lucian (lycan in Underworld) must surely be sulking somewhere for being sidelined. (Oh don’t worry about me, I am writing this with the aspen tree branch and the silver bullet at the ready, just in case).

Getting married on a Friday seems like a bad idea because you are doomed to a cat and dog life.(Ah, now that explains the divorce rates) Here is the one of the most bizarre ones I have heard (hopefully I didn’t hear this on a Friday). Rumor has it that hearing anything new on a Friday gives you another (another? Hmm, time to look into a mirror) wrinkle on your face and adds a year to your age. (Olay won’t help you either)

The combined evil: Friday the 13^th

Legend has it that on Friday, October 13th, 1307, King Philip IV of France ordered for the arrest of Jaques de Molay who was the Grand Master of the Knights Templars as well as his sixty senior knights on account of heresy, blasphemy and betraying the king. Jacques de Molay, the last known Grand Master of the Knights Templar was burned to death on a slow fire outside Notre Dame on Friday, March 13, 1314. It was said that while Jaques de Molay was being burned at the stake he was still screaming out his innocence and cursed King Philip IV of France, Pope Clemence V, and Prime Minister Guillaume de Nogaret to death within a year and 13 generations of their families to misery. The subsequent deaths of King Philip, Pope Clemence V, and Prime Minister Guillaume within a year and the populace’s belief that de Molay’s curse also applied to them led many to fear the number 13 and Friday the 13th in particular.

In 1970, Apollo 13, the 13th mission launched from pad 39 (13 x 3), mission was aborted, after an explosion occurred in the fuel cell of their service module. The rocket had left launching pad at 13:13 CST and the date was April 13th. (Why attribute the failure to the incompetency of NASA? Friday the 13^th theory sounds way cooler and makes Uncle Sam look better, doesn’t it? Just saying)

In India, May 13 2011, a Friday, certainly spelt doom for the Communist party in West Bengal (Paschim Banga if you want). This day, a political party symbolized by the colour green (read: Trinamool Congress) swiftly wrested a state from the traditional red Communists who had successful ruled the state for 34 long years.

Moving on. The fear of the Friday the 13^th is so pervasive that it even has its own fancy Greek term: paraskevidekatriaphobia. I presume that learning to pronounce this term will be enough to begin the healing process. Folklore offers other remedies, however. One recommendation is to climb to the top of a mountain or skyscraper and burn all the socks you own that have holes in them. Another is to stand on your head and eat a piece of gristle. So if you fear Friday the 13th, take your pick of remedies.

According to the Stress Management Center and Phobia Institute in Asheville, North Carolina, an estimated 17 to 21 million people in the United States are affected by a fear of this day making it the most feared day and date in history.

If that’s the case, we are guilty of perpetuating a misnomer by labeling Friday the 13th “the unluckiest day of all,” a designation perhaps better reserved for, say, a Friday the 13th on which one breaks a mirror, walks under a ladder, spills the salt, and spies a black cat crossing one’s path — a day, if there ever was one, best spent in the safety of one’s own home with doors locked, shutters closed, fingers crossed, reading my blog.(Cheeky!)