Jimmy The Kid

Came home to find a brand new photo scanner. So I dug out some old family photographs and VOILA! Here's me, when I was actually a kid (Can't believe there was actually a time when I used to look quite bearable) ...

Ho, ho, ho?

It's Christmas eve and the air has a slight nip to it.
I edge my way through a busy City street, even as drunken revellers jostle me as they yell, "Happy Christmas!!" to nobody in particular. Check for my wallet... Whew! Still around...
Engulfed by a flood of humanity. Here's an old lady, out for a nice Christmas dinner with her daughter and son-in-law. There's this kid, and you can tell he is a brat by the way he is squealing for that Buzz Lightyear figurine on the toystore window. There are these punks, hair cropped short and dyed pimento red, animatedly arguing whether it's time yet for their next joint.
There are tens of thousands on Brigade Road, each trying to celebrate Christmas in his (or her) own special way. Me? I am just trying to reach the other side of the street - and quite unsuccessfully at that.
Finally, I turn into a dark alley. Getting late for office, so I might as well take the shorter way out of this shit.
It's calmer here. The only people around now are couples, busy whispering sweet-nothings to the other or doing stuff that has helped make a superstar out of Emraan Hashmi. Much better, as long as I keep my eyes on the muck-splattered road.
Someone paws at my hand. I looked down to see a street urchin selling Santa Claus topees. Shrug Shrug.
He starts scratching my shoulder again. "Please sir, one.. just take just one," he tries again, in broken English. I quicken my pace but my nemesis seems to be relentless in my pursuit.
And just when I'm about to break into a jog, I look back. The guy has left me for another - this time it's a phirang, a.k.a. an American tourist, complete with a blonde beard, rucksack et al.
Now, although these creatures are generally supposed to be easy prey, I have my doubts about this particular specimen. At nearly seven feet, he towers over the urchin - his bodylanguage anything but pleasant.
The victim backs away, in the newfound knowledge of impending doom. But he isn't that lucky. The phirang reaches out, snatches two Santa topees from him and throws them into the gushing sewer.
The kid starts crying but the giant wouldn't care less. He tries to spit on him, somehow bungles up and sends saliva dribbling down his beard to create a damp patch on the checkered shirt below. Which proves to be too much for the kid, sending him down the street at full speed.
I close my eyes - maybe to stop looking at the hated person for a split second.
"I am sure he's related to Bush in some way," I hear a male voice say, followed by a woman's giggle. So I wasn't the sole witness to this incident.
Time Out. I turn and walk up the stairs to my office.
Enough of Christmas - work beckons.

PS. This pic is also from the net, but come visiting anyway ;)

Oh, Take Me Back To The Start...

I opened my eyes. There was light now, and it was starting to get warmer. And, well, there was this strangely familiar hue to everything...
I jumped up to look out the window and yes, there she was...
The green, green grass of home. The cows, the trees, the lungi-clad people - all racing into the landscape with the speed of sound even as the sun peeped shyly through the rustling sky above. We were in Kerala now!
Yes, I was in God's Own Country and even the fact that I was sitting in a bus - breathing tinned air - wasn't making me miss any of it...
Though my parents were born in Kerala - not I; though I learnt the language (supposedly) just a couple of years ago; though I swear I hate anything remotely Mallu - there is something in me that just can't get enough of the place.
It ain't just the greenery or the air. It's also the elderly lady squabbling loudly with the fishmonger on the street, the drunkard staggering his way to a pissed wife under the setting sun, the smoke from kitchen chimneys trying to roast the coconuts dry, and the loud ammachis enquiring about your identity from the other side of the rubber plantation.
Kerala, whatever ills it may have, is still Kerala. Do whatever you want to with it, O rulers of this land, just don't make it the concrete jungle you are threatening to...

Greetings from the greener side :)

Entering MCC

The year was 1998.
I was standing right in front of the entrance of the Madras Christian College, where I was supposed to spend the next three years of my life. Beyond was a whole new world; it sure looked green from the outside, but then - who knew what the insides held for me.
The guys at the main gate would not let my auto in. So I lugged my stuff out of it and held out a couple of tenners for the driver, thinking that I shall let him keep the change. The guy looked like he didn't know whether to laugh or get pissed - nobody dismisses an auto guy away with just twenty bucks in Chennai.
Of course, I did not know that.
"Eighty," he mumbled menacingly and started taking off his shirt. His chest had a big tiger on it.
I gave him the money and started edging away. Tigers are not nice, especially if they are tattooed on someone who looks like Schwarzenegger's meaner brother.
Looked back only after I had crossed the gate. The guy was chugging off in his yellow monster and I could swear he was saying something about someone up my family tree.
I sighed with relief and walked down the Thomas Hall road. This certainly didn't seem like a good start to a whole new life.
MCC was beautiful - and scary! Huge trees stood on both sides of the path, their green boughs forming a wide roof over my head. Shafts of light cut through the air to form yellow botches on the weathered tar road below. And the sounds of birds were everywhere, like I had stepped into some weird wildlife sactuary...
Humanity, in general, seemed to be absent from the scene. Down the road, under the Zoology water tank, I saw - naw, it couldn't be - maybe a lean cow or something. But then, there came another - a smaller one. And yes, they definitely WERE deer.
What kind of place was this?!
Now, if you guys have ever been seniors in college, you would know how to spot greenhorns. They are generally the ones with shaven faces and well-combed heads - searching confusedly for the water fountain or the stairway to the second floor with 'I'm Lost' writ large on the face. Which, in this case, was me.
Somebody tapped me on the shoulder, making me look up.
It was this tall scary-looking guy with shaggy hair flowing down his shoulders, and there were six (or maybe seven) rings on each of his ears. By his side was this woman who would have looked more like a woman if she hadn't been so liberal on facial hardware. As such, she looked like one of those extras out of Van Damme's Cyborg.
"What's your name?" the he-monster asked.
"Jimmy," I said, almost in a whisper. The scary duo glared at me as if I had committed some unspeakable offence.
This time, it was the she-monster who screeched at me: "What?! Don't you have anything else to go with it? Are you a b*****d?!"
Now, where I come from - the 'B' word is taboo. Calling someone the 'B' word is equivalent to asking the dude for a swift kick right where it hurts. Therefore, I bristled and prepared to lash out in a fit of righteous anger.
But good sense prevailed, and I didn't. Probably one of the reasons why I am alive enough to be blogging about this today.
"Jimmy Jacob," I mumbled, hoping that this nightmare would end. And thankfully, the monsters seemed to have become quite bored with me already. They let me go, but not before giving me a look of utter disgust.
My destination came into plain sight. At first, it seemed like nothing much to look at... just a spread-out yellow structure with 'Bishop Heber Hall' written above its entrance. Little did I know then that five (not three) years later, I would be walking out of it with a tear running down my cheek.
My luggage and I crossed the hedge and it was with great anxiety that I climbed the steps to the main hall. Staring at me from the other end of a giant outdoor hall was a plaque with these words painted on it:
Nisi Dominus Frustra.

Calvin and Me

There's no problem so awful that you can't add some guilt to it and make it even worse!
- The Essential Calvin and Hobbes

Went down to Bookworm (TM) the other evening.
For quite a simple reason, actually - buy a few of those five-buck Batman comics and hurry back without making the mistake of glancing at those alluring (and more importantly, expensive) Asterix and Tintins.
After all, I am just a poor sub-editor in Bangalore.
But then, as fate would have it - lying right next to the stack of DC comics was a copy of Attack of the Deranged Mutant Killer Snow Goons, and the cover had our heroes crouching behind a tree to hide from a frowning two-headed snowman. I just had to have it.
So what if it cost me everything I needed to live through the week (payday was next Wednesday); some things are just meant to be bought — whether it comes at the price of your next meal or not...
Now, believe me, Calvin and Hobbes comes in that category of ‘some things’. Loved them when I was a kid, still love them at twenty-seven and I would bet that I remain their number one fan at 89.
Well, I never had a stuffed tiger who could be my imaginary friend in happiness and sorrow. Nor did I get to make decapitated snowmen in my backyard — hell, the only snow I see is in the refrigerator. But this shouldn’t mean that I can’t relate with the Guy.
Everyone can, I guess... at least to some measly extent.
Monsters under my bed, for example. For years, I was scared of the boogieman — always preferring to keep my eyes closed than see that shirt, hanging innocently on the peg, turn into a snarling monster.
Calvin, however, treats the monsters differently. As long as he takes advantage of the fact that they are “all teeth and digestive tract” and doesn’t believe it when they say they are li’l dust balls, they can do him no harm. That is, if Hobbes doesn’t push him down for some allegedly fresh salmon.
And yes, there was the time when I (like Calvin) came upon the idea that history, evolution and even the big bang had occurred for the sole purpose of creating the one person — me. And therefore (QED ... whatever), I was the all-powerful, or shall we call it... ‘The Reason.’
Of course, I ditched the idea the next time my dad made me eat boiled beans and carrot at the dinner table. Apparently, he was one of those who believe that eating crap builds character.

Calvin

The only philosopher worth the name...

Changing seasons...

The scalding summer

Harshad always knew that his father was a cruel man; and worse, a cruel village landlord.
Indeed, Thakur Balbir Singh never cared for the starving villagers — every favour had to come at a much greater price.
For instance... take the case of poor old Balua, he thought. The 80-year-old man had come begging for a bag of grain the day before; and his father had been making him toil for it under the hot sun ever since. First he had made him dig trenches around the village, then he made him plough the fields and now, he was making him wash the pigs — without even according him the benefit of a proper meal.
And yet, the villagers respected the landlord. The more he exploited them, the more his henchmen pillaged and beat up the commonfolk — the lower they knelt before him.
“Sooner or later, the Thakur will fall,” thought Harshad, “And justice will be served...”
He was truly ashamed of his father.

Spring comes-a-visiting

Then, one day, a cool breeze wafted across the region — very different from the usually scalding sandstorms that characterised it. “Here it is,” thought Harshad, “The winds of change are here...”
A messenger came running towards their palatial residence. “Thakursaab! Ranisaheba has come! She’s come back to town!”
Ranisaheba. Harshad had heard many a tale about her. Fifteen years ago, she had been the Thakur’s sworn enemy. That is, until the Thakur used his goons to drive her away.But now she was back. And the boy knew what this meant.
The beginning of the end.
“She’s back!” gasped the messenger, “And she is trying to win the villagers over. Even as we speak, she’s feeding them all at her haveli!”
The Thakur’s wife fainted and all the faces in the vicinity turned pale. But if Harshad expected to see any sign of disappointment on his father’s face, he was sadly mistaken.
“Ha! What’s wrong with you people?” the landlord hollered jovially, his giant mustache glinting in the sunlight: “Go get yourself something to drink and lighten up!”
“Overconfidence and pride. They will fade away with the setting sun,” murmered Harshad to himself a little too glumly.
Days followed months and the reports that flowed in weren’t very encouraging. The Ranisaheba was now feeding them by the horde. She had erected a pandal outside her palace, where her servants used to serve the villagers food — morning, noon and night. Hell, she was even constructing houses for some of them!
On the other side of the equation, the Thakur did not have villagers coming in for favours anymore. He could not even find people to grow crops on his land, leave alone make them work like slaves. And whenever he ventured into the village, the commonfolk would spit loudly to show their contempt for him.
And no, Thakur could not beat them into submission. Probably because all his henchmen had ditched him for the competition.
But, for some reason, the Thakur did not seem worried. And whenever Harshad asked him why, he would repeat an age-old cliche: “Patience. Time heals all wounds.”

The autumn of spring

And then, the tide started turning again.
According to newer reports, the Ranisaheba was not doing that well anymore. By splurging her wealth on the villagefolk and distributing it among them, she had achieved near-bankruptcy. She was now selling off the antiques in her haveli to keep up with the feed-the-poor routinue.
Harshad respected the Ranisaheba... but now, in her newfound poverty — he could feel himself pitying her. The reports started getting increasingly distressing: Ranisaheba could not feed the villagers today; Even now, they are squatting under the pandal, waiting for food. And a few days later: A few villagers tried to attack her while she was coming out of the haveli. She doesn’t even wear good clothes now. And they all spit on her.
This was all very confusing for Harshad. The Ranisaheba had been more generous than Raja Harishchandra himself... but all the villagers felt for her was hate.
He glanced at the aging Thakur; he seemed neither happy nor sad — just a tad impatient.
The weather was getting hot again. And dust-ghosts now whirled around at regular intervals, as if searching for a place to rest. As if hailing the return of the old days.

Summer’s here... again

A month later, Harshad saw the messenger again. This time, he had good news.
Last night, several armed villagers had entered the Ranisaheba’s haveli through a bedroom window on the first floor. They had stabbed Ranisaheba and her five-year-old boy, then burnt down the building. Nothing remained of the good samaritan now — just ashes.
Thakur Balbir Singh laughed loudly. Then he ordered a bottle of whiskey, which he consumed with a few of his closest associates. That night, revelry reigned in the Thakur’s residence.
The next morning, Harshad went to him again. And sitting on the edge of the bed, he asked him: “Father, how did you know this would happen?”
And the Thakur turned to him, whiskey still on his breath: “Son, I know I’m a hard man. But I’m like this for a purpose.”
Then, settling down, he said: “The Ranisaheba was a good person ... wanting to help the villagefolk and all that. But she couldn’t understand the very people she was trying to help, and therein lay her mistake.”
“Her mistake?” Harshad did not know what to think.
“Yes. It’s very simple, actually,” said the Thakur, “When the Ranisaheba first started helping out the commonfolk, they were grateful and happy. But as time went by, they forgot that she was doing them a favour ... the daily meals became their right. And God forbid, humans hate being deprived of their rights...”
Harshad understood. And when he looked to his side, he saw old Balua .... he had come after eight long months for another bag of grain.
“True,” thought Harshad, as he watched the Thakur handing a shovel to the elderly person, “My father must be a cruel man, but a wise one at that...”
For the first time, he felt proud of being the son of Thakur Balbir Singh.

The dawn of winter

Years passed... and one day, the Thakur eased into his chair.
The cold had set in now, and the desert night wore that spooky , mournful look — as if hailing in a whole world of change.
A couple of hours later, his wife, the Thakurain, tried to wake him up for dinner. But he didn’t.
He had passed into the afterlife with a smile on his face.
This story has no connection with the Ranisaheba one. Nor was the Thakur paying for all the hardships he had caused the villagefolk. It was just that his time had come.
Life, like all other things, must pass.

Oh, Horrors: Part II

Way back, when I was just a child of ten, I would have starved for horror cinema if not for the Ramsay brothers. And the Zee Horror Show, whatever people think about it, proved to be my only hope of sustenance in an otherwise insipid life.
Well, you would say ... the show was terrible! Couldn’t agree with you more, but back then I did not even know who Freddy Krueger was. I still remember looking forward to Friday night throughout the week, waiting for the silver screen to burst into creepy blue and the words ‘Shyam and Tulsi Ramsay present..’ sail across it.
Now, all the Zee Horror... episodes hinged on one universal storyline, which generally went like this: Geeta (Names change. Different episodes would have different girls with different names — but all are essentially stupid) is a pretty, happy-go-lucky village girl. But then, on the other side of the village live three men who, though quite strong, have a few weaknesses — one of which is ‘nice’ country women who wear embroidered skirts and hop-skip-n-jump around the paddy fields all night.
So there, Rosie gets manhandled and murdered. The third night after the crime, she returns with sharper fangs and longer fingernails. A few YAAARGHs, AAAAAHs, NAAAAHHHIIIIs and BACHAAAAOs later, justice is served and the lady’s spirit is free to leave.
Of course, there were a few I liked, but back then I was too naive to know that they were direct lifts from classic Hollywood flicks. For instance, take Dahshat — an episode which has this guy discover that his new neighbour is actually a bloodthirsty vampire. The truth, however, dawned on me only last year, when I descended upon Fright Night while searching for something to watch on the idiot box.
But, well, I still liked Dahshat better — maybe because the vampire in the copy was a lady, and a stunning one at that. (Check this one out, Everyman!)
Then there was Taveez, which was quite an uninspiring copy of The Monkey Bone (the short story; not the stupid Brendan Fraser-starrer), but considering that I did not know that such a tale even existed, I loved it.
Well, anyways... enough of the desi stuff.
Another Hollywood horror I really liked was Frailty, starring Matthew McConaughey. Now, this was more a psychological thriller than an actual one with gargoyles and vampires romping around — but — the very premise of the movie, which had this ‘God-fearing’ dad trying to make his two kids help him chop off people’s heads, was quite chilling. Very chilling, indeed. Once the movie was done, switching off the lights and trying to get some sleep proved to be quite a tough task.
At this point, I must tell you about an alleged horror flick I saw yesterday — Alien vs Predator. It was only through sheer willpower that I managed to watch it till the very end and everytime I tried sparing myself the misery, my mind went back to the time when Everyman sat through two hours of American Cyborg-Steel Warrior and then wrote an entire post on it. If he could, I could too. And I had some booze to help me through it.
The acting, I must say, was terrible. Especially that of the Afro-American actress, who seemed to have a more dead-pan expression than her Predator companion (with his iron helmet on, of course), and, for that matter, Arnold Schwarzenegger.
And yes, the storyline was crap too.
Now, coming back to good ones in the genre, I particularly liked Dawn of the Dead and Night of the Living Dead. Maybe because I got some kind of a soft spot for zombies.
Zombies aren’t wicked, they don’t plot — for heaven’s sake... they don’t think either, because whatever’s left of their grey matter is pure rot. No, all they want is their fundamental right to food — which lies under your skin. Lovable creatures, aren’t they?
The following are my favourite horror movies. The first two I may have already mentioned ... here are the rest.
1. The Sixth Sense
2. Psycho
4. Dawn of the Dead
5. Invasion of the Body Snatchers
6. Misery
7. The Shining
8. The Omen (Not the new one — EWW!)
9. The Exorcism of Emily Rose
10. Hour of the Wolf

P.S. I wanted to mention a movie called Dead End in my post, but took pity on ol’ Nandhu — bless his dear soul.

Oh, horrors!

The lady runs into the forest, her clothes flapping in the dark night air. And though you know she is doomed, you hold your breath waiting for the inevitable.
And then, it happens. Vines swoop down from scary-looking trees, grabbing her by the legs. Similar monstrosities appear, pinning the screaming person to the ground and soon, all you can see are her eyes glowing with fear.
But no... wait! The vines are parting her legs now, while one particular vine mischieviously hovers in the air like a snake readying for the kill. Wonder what is it up to...
And the next moment, a shriek ensues even as an older person's hand quickly covers your eyes. And the moment is lost.

Evil Dead was my first scary movie ever, and it was this very flick that made me the horror freak that I am. And so impressed was I by the entire package — the shrieking ladies, the trapdoors wrapped in heavy iron chains and the delightfully musical demons — that I just had to watch it again, a week ago.Which, quite understandably, was a tame affair.
The demons, so alive and horrifying in my memory, looked more like fat geezers covered in wet flour; the actors seemed to be performing in some pre-school drama and the special effects were... well, I had seen better in Shaktimaan.
Well, maybe I am overdoing it. It wasn’t all that bad, actually — especially if you compare it with stuff like Decadent Evil and well, my all-time non-favourite, Child’s Play. But then, expectations are bad things... and if movies don’t live up to it, they might as well die.
Or maybe it’s because things change, and even more so — your idea of horror. When I was a kid, even Shyam Ramsay could use one of his lame zombies to scare the shit out of me and my idea of terror was generally a sari-clad woman, equipped with bloody canines and a candle, singing pathetic songs about ‘undying’ love.
Watched Psycho at a little over 12 and I, for the life in me, could not understand why my co-viewers were trembling just because a lady (Janet Leigh, I know now) was doing something similar on the other side of the screen. And, naah, the psycho was just too lean to be scary.
Fast-forward till a couple of years ago, when I sat through (make that trembled through) Psycho once again. This time I could understand everything — including how good the acting was — and was in the danger of making my fingernails the movie-time snack. Times had changed, yes... but my love for horror movies hadn’t.
If you ask me what my favourite movie in this genre is, I would say... The Sixth Sense. Now, there are many who would object - say that it is actually a thriller and stuff. But this, I opine, is hogwash! Anything that is capable of sending a shiver up my spine, I would say is ‘horror cinema’.
Now, that particular scene in which Cole sees a lady sneaking into the kitchen, after he’s taken a leak - man, that was scary! It made the hair on my head reach for the moon and I shrieked out so bad, I had to look around to see if anybody in the theatre had been disturbed.
But no.. luckily, they were too busy doing their own shrieking to notice.
Another notable one was The Exorcism of Emily Rose. Now, saying that this movie is one of your personal favourites is not going to make you very popular. Many of my friends insist that it made them laugh. And yeah, my fellow members of the audience were also guffawing away while I was busy trying to tame my nerves.
Don’t know why. Maybe they thought Emily’s contorted face (whenever she got possessed) looked funny. Or maybe they were just trying to hide their fear behind hollow sounds of pleasure.

(To be continued)

What is truth, asked jesting Pilate...

Little orange-tinted glasses. He was always made to put them on, even when asleep.
But no, today he wouldn't.
Stam got out of bed, throwing the covers - and his glasses - aside. Today he wanted to face life the way it was. Warily, he stepped out the door. And he certainly wasn't prepared for the sight that greeted him...
People - hordes of them - were walking backwards. All the vehicles were moving in reverse, as if that was the way they were supposed to behave. Blindfolded traffic policemen were helping old women cross the street, then dumping them into a well situated just across it. The sun was up in the sky, as if unsure if it were supposed to set or rise. Animals ... there were no animals in sight, only dumb humans who thought they were as smart as they could be. All of them slowly walking backwards and out of sight.
And the air, the air seemed to be on fire.
"This is all wrong!" cried Stam, "All wrong!" And he rushed forward, trying to inform them of the error of their ways.
The humans looked at him, some with surprise and others with disdain. "Who's this madcap?" some of them asked others. "He?" the others answered them, "That's young Stam. But this is weird ...he seemed to be quite okay till yesterday."
Stam couldn't care less. Couldn't they see the obvious? It was as clear as daylight. And so, like some ancient prophet out of a powdering religious book, he tried harder to make them understand. In whispers, in screams.
But to no avail. They just kept staring, their eyes as glazed as glass, until one of them said: "Yesterday was yesterday. Stam's not one of us today! Kill him!"
This the others understood. And they stood erect, chanting the words like zombies in a dear departed choir: "Yesterday was yesterday. Stam's not one of us today! Kill him!" Stones came flying his way. Stam got to his feet, ready to flee. He should never have removed his glasses. Without it, he was alone. He was dead meat.
A big rock hit him on the face. With blood pouring from a gash in his cheek, Stam looked up. The humans were now advancing, their eyes blank and their chant rising to a terrifying crescendo: Kill him, kill him.
Stam started running. Wrong or right, survival was the only thing that mattered to him right then. But everywhere he fled, more and more humans started turning up - raising the same death chant... Kill him.
He had gone too far. The only way was the human way ... and he had violated it.
And just then, when all hope had gone, he saw the Strouk’s house.
They all thought he was a demon. Nobody ever went to the Strouk’s house. Mama had told him not to, either. But then, he did not a choice. And in the present circumstances, mama would be the next to cast the stone.
Stam ran into the Strouk’s house, all the while looking back in fear. But no, the humans did not follow him; for some reason, they all feared — and respected — the Strouk.
The house was dark and dusty. A few pieces of furniture, covered with a white (now yellowed) blanket, lay in the centre of the living room. At the far end was a tiny washbasin, stained with spit. And beside a window, in the west end of the room, was the Strouk.
He was laughing.
“You are the third person to come in this decade. Do I sense an intellectual revolution in the making?” he asked rhetorically.
In Stam, emotions were battling for supremacy. Part of him was scared, part of him was angry, part of him was dumbfounded ... but for the most part, he was curious.
“What’s all this?” he asked aggressively, “Everything’s wrong out there. But they just can’t see it. And they want to kill me for pointing it out!”
The Strouk remained calm. He had seen quite a few tantrums in his age to be really impressed by this one.
“So what if you saw them walking backwards,” he asked, “You were supposed to be wearing your glasses. Outside of them, truth’s not the same.”
“Maybe I shouldn’t have removed them,” admitted Stam, “But that doesn’t change the fact that we are still doing everything wrong!”
The Strouk pondered for a while, and then said: “For a world that knows black to be white, who’s to tell them what is day and what is night?”
Stam hadn’t thought of that. “So, the one-eyed-man isn’t exactly king in the land of the blind?” A smirk spread across the Strouk’s face and, for a split second, Stam thought he spied an evil gleam in his eyes. “No... far from it. In the land of the blind, the one-eyed has no place. For a while, they will shun him ... and later, after they have had enough of his madness, they will roast him over a slow fire. Because, in such a place, darkness is the truth.”
“C’mon,” said Stam, “Truth cannot be founded on a majority decision... can it?”
“Of course it can,” responded the Strouk, “Until the day someone discovers that the sun is just a figment of the imagination, they will go on thinking that it is a ball of burning gas. And till then, it will be the only answer to that question... You see, the possibilities that lie before you are infinite. You have to pick your own Truths.”
Stam could now see what he meant. His questions were answered, but he wasn’t happy. But then, happiness is not a very easy thing to achieve.
The Strouk spoke up again: “I think you have overstayed your welcome — and it's time for my nap anyway. Why don’t you close the door as you leave?” And when he could see Stam hesitating, he said, “Don’t worry about the humans outside. You would be surprised to notice how weak their memory is.”
So Stam picked himself up and stepped out the door.
Indeed, the crowd of humans had dispersed and the only ones around were busy walking backwards. Stam looked back to see the Strouk preparing for his nap.
“Life sucks,” Stam thought as he put on his orange-tinted glasses and joined the great majority.

Man! And Superman...

For those who have come in late, I am the world's greatest comic buff.
I devoured my first Batman comic when I was five and at seven, the Spectre was my imaginary friend. And, believe it or not, the Punisher and Spider-man were on my bedroom wall much before Axl Rose could even venture into the territory.
And no, I ain't boasting. Being an all-day sucker for them freakos in tights 'n' underwear is nothing to be proud of... or so my dad says. Well, maybe he's right, maybe he's not ... but I still swear by Jim Lee.
Anyways, at ten I was making up my own superheroes. Which is what I would like to yap about...
My first biggie was Floating Man, who possessed the amazing ability to float wherever he goes. But hey, asked the sceptics (well, my world is full of them), isn't he going to do anything about 'em land-lubber scum? And what do they have in the water anyway, except for those annoying squid and octopus thingies?
Well, I had an answer for them too. Floating Man could actually summon water from oceans and seas to get rid of the criminal element in Goodville city. So... picture this.
The evil Dr Scorb is at the local bank, brandishing his lazer gun and ordering all the old clerks to throw their he hearties into a solar-powered multi-pronged gooby bag. But then, tarantaraaaa! It's Floating Man to the rescue!
Thar he comes, floating down the street on waters borrowed from seas as far as the one in Mesopotamia (Didn't know how to spell that then, don't know how to spell that now). And when our hero gets close enough to the wretched villain (who, incidentally, does not know how to swim) he launches a swift kick right on where-it-hurts-the-most. And well, the rest is history ... the villain never has children, goes to jail and Floating Man is kissed and kissed and kissed and kissed by pretty pretty girls.
But then, there was the problem. The rivers and seas and oceans that had come rushing its way into the bank has caused more harm than Dr Scorb could ever unleash in a lifetime. And Floating Man, in the face of millions of lawsuits and hate mails, decides to retire and spend the rest of his life playing second mate to the hermit crab.
So, that was that.
There were many others too, including Snakeman, Divinity (this one gets her powers from Zeus/ quite interesting) and Black Thunder, who never found their way out of the drawing board. After years and years came my biggest superhero till date - Major Paine!
Now, people tell me there's a movie with the same name (but spelt differently: P..A..Y..N..E). But have no worries... my Major has nothing that's remotely similar to the clown in that one.
Well, Major Paine is this dude in black mask, black cape, black boots and (undoubtedly) black underwear to match the rest. And he has absolutely no powers - except for some marked expertise in the art of fisticuffs. But then, he has righteousness by his side.
Major Paine's nemesis is Dr Watson Evil and he is always plotting on ways to take over the universe. And everytime our hero crashes in through the roof, Dr Watson Evil says, "Ahh! You are a major pain!"
And Major Paine, with a twinkle in his eyes, says:" Elementary, my dear Watson."

(To be continued....)

Me and the Dead

Is life after death for real? I don't know and I wouldn't want to know anytime soon. For the time-being, breathing seems to be just the thing for me...
But then, some element of fascination does hide behind the darkness of the subject. Really, what happens then? Do our spirits rot in the cold confines of the grave, giving hearty company to the layers of flesh that are slowly becoming morsels for rodents with bloodstained teeth. Or do we rise in the air, invisible to everyone around us, soon to meet whoever made the Sun, the Moon and the Stars. Or do we get thrown into a lake of fire, destined for an eternity of pain, regret and anxiety.
Or, worst of all, do we get to haunt the earth forever, watching all our loved ones die one by one by one...
Whatever it is, its bound to be scary.