Friday, April 8, 2011

The Tombstone Talks

Here lies the body of Jimmy I. Hives
Kept twenty-four people from ending their lives
Listened to arguments and worries, complaints
That could try the patience of the holiest saints
With his cap on his head and umbrella in hand
Old Jimmy never shirked from lending a hand
When Billy Jean cocked a gun to his own head
"Don't do it" was what Jimmy's soft voice said
When Ricky Burrito said he'd jump from a cliff
Only Jimmy could keep him from becoming a stiff
Nancy Parker slit her wrists at six by the clock
And woke up to find Jimmy had brought her the Doc
Harry Paulson's wife Linda ran off to Rome
It was Jimmy's persuasion that brought her back home
Just in time to see Harry, in his hand was a knife
No doubt about it, Jimmy saved Harry's life
Candice DeMorgan, alone at eighty-two
Says she'd have just given up if it wasn't for you know who
He visited her in hospital, sat by her white bed
Jimmy I. Hives brought her back from the dead
He argued Arnold Van Dyke's case in court like heck
And kept the hangman's noose away from an innocent man's neck
Seventeen hostages owed their very lives
To that passionate negotiator, Jimmy I. Hives
He convinced the lone gunman to lay down his gun
And let them out of that bank, one by one
On his 50th birthday, Jim was in for a treat
Those twenty-four people went over to meet
The hero, their angel who had saved all their lives
They arrived at the home of Jimmy I. Hives
They knocked and they hollered, they rang and they frowned
And finally they got Little Bobby Brown
(Who'd been snatched from in front of a speeding car
By Jimmy Boy who saw it rush at the kid from afar)
To open a window, crawl in and unlock
The door upon which twenty-four people had knocked
He did so, they came in and rushed upstairs
To the bedroom where they stopped, they stood and they stared
Until someone in quivering, grief-stricken voice said
"It's Jimmy...Old Jimmy...Jimmy Hives is dead!"
They rushed him to the hospital where the Doc sadly said:
"Cause of death: overdosed while lying in bed."
You see, poor Jimmy had always fought depression,
He fought a lone battle without any mode of expression
'Cause Jimmy had always been alone
He never ever had someone to call his own
No friends, no family, no wife, no son
Jimmy I. Hives had nobody, no one
So he tried to help others and he never complained
Although in Jimmy's life, it had always rained
But though he saved lives and became a hero to all
That didn't ease his burden, for still no one called
Him while he sat at home, alone, all alone
Staring with dull eyes at the ever-silent phone
So he wrote an apology and paid all his bills
Then lay down in bed and downed a bottle of pills
And so here lies his body, alone on a hill
Undisturbed all year long, that is until
The 31st of December, his birthday comes 'round
And twenty-four people all crowd around
And lay twenty-four roses on that single grave
For the twenty-fifth life that Jimmy I. Hives couldn't save.
   

Monday, March 28, 2011

Welcome

I know I'm interrupting No 1 Fan's plotline (again!) but I thought this was worth a mention.
I'd like to welcome to this blog a certain Ms. Dipin Kaur, who has recently started following it. Why is this of any significance you might ask? Quite simply, she is the first follower of this blog who I do not know personally! Seriously. Yeah, I know, it's kinda sad but hopefully this is a sign of things to come. So I'd like to thank Ms. Kaur for making my day and I hope to get some feedback from her. I also hope you won't tire of my inconsistency and bear with me which seems to have become the most often used phrase in this blog.
Oh and if by any chance you accidentally pressed the follow button and were planning to correct that but won't do so now because you feel it would be embarassing....meh, I'll take what I can get. A pity follower's better than no followers, right?

Sunday, March 27, 2011

No 1 Fan - Part 4 - The Reason

<Sorry it took so long people, my exams were on and I kinda lost interest in this plotline. But never fear! I am back on track and hopefully I'll be able to finish this thing soon. Please excuse the brevity of this next part, but it takes a while for me to get back in the groove. Bear with me!>



He looked at the book with disgust. Then he looked back up at her.
"This is why you're here?"
"Of course."
"But it's trash."
"I know it is..."
He relaxed. She was insulting the book. All was right with the universe again.
"...as compared to your later work."
He coughed. His later work? The Red Door was a steaming pile of cowdung, but it was only marginally worse than the rest of his books. As one reviewer put it, "Tarun Rai's one admirable trait is his consistency. Possibly no other writer has managed to continuously and dilligently churn out as much nauseating material as Tarun Rai."
He decided to ask her outright.
"What exactly do you like about the book?"
She thought for a minute.
"Well... I like the subtle way in which you mock democracy's shortcomings. Oh, and the veiled references to your contemporaries is pretty entertaining as well. But what really impressed me was the absolutely unassuming way in which you tackle the subject of your own mortality whilst highlighting the futility of resisting the temptations that come our way everyday."
He smiled. And then he nodded. And then smiled again. He looked into her chestnut eyes, past the lenses of the round spectacles perched on the bridge of her nose. And then he asked her:
"What the hell are you talking about?"  

Thursday, February 24, 2011

Mobius

I tried to write the next part of "No 1 Fan", but I found I was in the mood for a lil poetry instead. Never fear though, I shall return to the Author's tale anon.
Let me know what you think of "Mobius".


I sit here typing endlessly
Waiting for another chance
A shot, a glimpse of eternity
A tiger with no pants

Feel free to rhyme
It is no crime
For all you see
Is all but me

A terror in the turnip field
Came calling at my door
A letter once with steam unsealed
Can be glanced through no more

Another time
A bog of slime
I feel so free
As the swineherds flee

Can you imagine the bonds we broke?
The supple fields, the brook and bridge?
A stranger in a dark green cloak
A fearsome brow upon a ridge

He comes to take
All those who fake
A way outside
To find their pride

Alas, my memory unbroke
A gargoyle turned to me
And then began to fiercely choke
All that was left of thee

Could I have saved
What critics raved
And ranted to be
A fallacy?

I leave these questions in your hands
I tried to let it flow
As lonely hearts and their respective bands
Show'd unto me the way to go

Green fields of jade
For whom they paid
At this arcade
As mem'ries fade
And horses neighed
The butchers weighed
The flesh; a shade
Watched these fair women wander free
I sit here typing endlessly...

Thursday, January 27, 2011

No 1 Fan - Part 3 - The Book

"Look, would it help if I told you why I'm here?"
His head snapped up at this sudden lifeline being thrown his way. He took a deep breath and said as if she'd just asked him whether he'd like her to remove the Great White Shark snacking on his vertebral column, "Yes, please."
"Very well then. This is why I'm here."
She fished around in the jhola she had with her. Finally she took out a book.
It was a rather unremarkable book, much dog-eared with a once bright yellow dust jacket, now faded with age and repeated perusals. The cover depicted a little boy and girl riding astride a centaur, surrounded by a multitude of fantastic beasts: dragons, manticores, ogres et al.
The Red Door by Tarun Rai.
A book that was widely panned by critics shortly before its release, but quickly sold out when it hit stores. Its signature blend of characters culled from a dozen different ancient myths, large, colourful and yet bland pictures, cringe-worthy verses, one-dimensional characters and more than a sprinkling of all-too familiar themes (plagiarism? Maybe a little.) proved inexplicably popular with children below the age of 10 and, more importantly, their parents. More important because whether or not their tiny tot really liked the book, every mother and father wanted their child to read it because it was "safe", "innocent" and, that most hideous of all adjectives, "cute".
And so it sold. Thousands of kids read about little Hari and Neha who find a gateway to a magical world called Jaadupur in their scooter garage, befriend Bawarchi, the erstwhile king (now chef) of the land and, finally, overthrow the evil dragon, Chip-kali, who had long ago usurped the throne (no explanation for why a dragon would want to usurp the throne, considering the local villagers already worshipped it. Not to mention how it did so, considering it was killed by a pair of 8-year-olds. With a broom. An enchanted broom, granted, but still, it's a rather tenuous argument.), after which they promptly and rather annoyingly live happily ever after with their various pixie friends who merely serve as cardboad cut-outs of characters.
He hated that book. Loathed it actually. He would often rip pages out of his own copy to use as toilet paper. He had also taken to ripping it apart in online chat rooms under the name TarunRaiSucks363784 (yes, there were actually 363783 others, probably more), an activity from which he derived a rather sadistic pleasure, especially if the person he was chatting with happened to be a fan. He actually kept a notebook in which he had noted down all the fallacies of the plot ('What happened to the kids' parents? Did they just leave them behind without even a note? Rotten kids.' or 'Exactly why is Bawarchi resigned to live his life as a chef? Do people really want such a lackadaisical, inefficient ruler who can't even find a damn broom without the help of little kids? Come to think of it, who the hell names their son Bawarchi? I mean, come on!!!' or 'Why the Red Door? Nowhere in the book is there a significant red door. The door to the scooter garage is painted white, for crying out loud!' and so on).
He despised it.
Its very name made him shudder in disgust.
It was also one of the first books he had written.

Thursday, January 6, 2011

No 1 Fan - Part 2 - Just Checking

<Okay, I know it's been a while since I've put anything up. Basically, I've been strapped for time. Or, to be precise, I never seem to be in the mood to write and have time to write at the same time.
Anyway, I've had certain observers of this blog ask me why I've been hibernating, so I decided to break the rest of "No 1 Fan" into even smaller installments, so I can at least have regular posts.
This next one's pretty inconsequential, but it moves the story along and, hopefully, keeps you in suspense. Or maybe it'll just piss you off.
Whatever the case may be, enjoy. More to come>





He gaped at her for a while. Then he realized he looked ridiculous with his mouth hanging open and decided to close it. He looked up at her. She was looking at him expectantly. He opened his mouth to say something, realized he had nothing to say and shut the hell up once more. She was still looking at him, one eyebrow raised. He started sweating. He opened his mouth and then closed it again. He repeated this little exercise a few more times before clearing his throat.
Then he just stared at her.
Slowly, he grew suspicious. Had he heard her right? Best to make sure.
"Er-"
The bored expression partially left her face.
"Yes?"
"Um... sorry, but what did you say?"
"I said 'yes' with a lilt at the end which generally suggests that what I said was interrogative in nature."
"Riiiiight... no, I mean what did you say before that?"
"Are you okay, Mr. Rai?"
"Before that."
"Oh. I said, "My name's Anita Sen.""
"And..."
"And I'm your number one fan."
"Ah, right."
And then he went back to doing his goldfish impression.

To be continued...

Saturday, November 13, 2010

No 1 Fan - Part 1 - The Author

He sat on the rickety plastic folding chair with an equally plastic smile on his face. The book release had gone well. A number of people had gushed about his earlier work as if he was releasing an anthology instead of a new novel. He had made the obligatory speech about how he wrote, why he wrote and who he had to thank. He'd always felt that his public speeches were the best fiction he ever wrote. If he ever stuck to the truth in his speeches, they wouldn't last longer than a minute which was most certainly not the done thing.
 And so here he was sitting on the most uncomfortable chair in the world, sipping something which was rather optimistically called "coffee" but was, in fact, closer to banana skins in terms of taste and distilled water in terms of consistency. All the same, he was impressed by the drink as it not only succeeded in tasting nothing like what it was supposed to, but also frequently lunged over the rim of the little crumply plastic glass as if it wanted to attack him. He started to toy with the idea that the coffee might just be an organic being which had recently evolved into a mobile liquid and was wondering why it was being thrown into a rather foul-smelling mouth, unwashed for over 24 hours as a result of a busy schedule. That is, the person whose mouth it was had a busy schedule. The mouth itself had no schedule whatsoever other than drooling over a pillow at 3 in the morning everyday without fail, when the author had fallen asleep and the salivary glands took advantage of the brain's momentary leave of absence to do whatever the hell they wanted.
"Um, excuse me?"
He looked up. the 40 year-old woman with the 12 year-old child in tow was frowning at the book he was signing.
"My son's name is Ujjwal, not..."
He looked at the pen in his hand stupidly. Somehow, it had written 'Sentient Coffee?" on the first page of the brightly coloured book he was signing. He coughed, embarassed, apologised and corrected the dedication, handing the book back to the kid, plastic smile once again firmly in place.
God, why had he ever wanted to be a children's writer? Not a day went by when he didn't ask himself that question. Growing up, he had always seen himself as a second Roald Dahl, writing bitingly funny adult short stories as well as imaginative novels for younger readers. But for some reason his pen was incapable of writing anything but the most childish of children's stories, thus only fulfilling half of his dream. True, his series of novels had become insanely popular, catapulting him to fame, but he always felt as if he wasn't living up to his own expectations. He would curse his simple tales of far-away lands populated by creatures culled from various myths, only to churn out another one, and then another, and another! His mother would tell him he was just being too hard on himself, that he should be thankful for how lucky he had been so far, to stick to what he was good at, to be proud of his gift and to stay off drugs. Somehow, he had managed to fail to fulfill all but the last of these objectives. And so, while his hand wrote his name over and over again on glossy paper, while his ears dully registered the gushing praise of devoted parents, the halting words of shy children, while his mouth smiled that most inane of smiles, his mind went over familiar lines of thought, picking away at his dreams until he was thoroughly disgusted with everything, the book launch, the fans the fame, everything.
Suddenly his hand stopped moving, deprived of a book to sign. He looked up, curious to see what had brought about this momentary reprieve. In front of him stood a short woman in her mid-twenties, slightly on the healthy side, something he noted with approval, sick as he was of the women he privately called 'Maidens of the Goddess Anorexia'. She had long black hair and a rather forbidding look. Her glasses were obviously carefully chosen to suit the shape of her face, which was attractive, but not made up. In fact, it seemed this woman made absolutely no attempt to allure; her clothes were simple and (he noted with some surprise) khadi. Obviously, a so-called 'intellectual'. This surprised him, as did the fact that she was over 15. Most people who weren't children, parents or non-readers looked upon his work with some contempt, labelling it 'kiddish' and 'derivative'. The highbrow intellectuals were especially scathing of his writing and wondered how such an untalented hack had made it big, something which he was both painfully aware of as well as something he privately agreed with. This woman in front of him quite clearly fit the description of the kind of person who would loathe him.
'So why is she here? She isn't going to publicly humiliate me, is she?' he wondered apprehensively. The fact that he was uncomfortable around the opposite sex made it much worse.
She continued to study him for a minute, and then cleared her throat, as if she was about to participate in a debate.
"My name's Anita Sen." Her voice was oddly flat and monotonous, as if she was vaguely bored already.
"I'm your number one fan."

To be continued...