The Supershort Story Of How The World Ends.

Ctrl + Alt + Del.

Open Task Manager.

End process "superman.dll".

The world ends.

...Dammit.

A Bit Of Luck, A Bit Of Black Magic

I found her hiding behind a row of Royals in various stages of repair, at "Bullet" Gopi's "Diesel Bullet Garriage". Yeah, that's how it was spelt, as the board that hung over his garage announced.

A protege of the Bullet Legend of Pudupet, Jafar Ali, Gopi was one smooth talking, grease-monkey genius. He knew how to sell a Bullet. Not that people who came looking for Bullets needed much convincing. But then, it takes something special to sell a Bullet chassis, fitted with a diesel motor, without an RC book, or chassis number, and no sales deed, to gullible software engineers who know they're getting ripped off. Yep, he was one of a kind.

So, anyways, after umpteen trips to the garriage, to find my Bullet, she finally caught my eye. Jet black, with a red flame tattoo across the fuel tank, she looked like a caged tiger, is what I would like to say, but it was closer to hobbling nag. Now, though your's truly was smitten by the prospect of a Bullet, I still wasn't confident of handling one, let alone a "God-Knows-How-Old" machine like this one. This is where Ashan comes in handy. Having already succumbed to the wiles and guiles of Gopi and acquiring The Amazing Thumper, Ashan had become Resident Expert on Diesel "Gopi" Bullets.

Kick-starting Thumper was a religious experience. You began with a silent prayer to The Powers That Be. A dozen spirited, progressively flagging kicks later, you could actually see the gates of Heaven. And finally, when the engine roared to life, the angels sang.

Why should she be any different? So we manoeuvred her onto the centre-stand (...standard position for kick-starting for amateurs, pros kick-start while sitting...), and Ashan did his little silent prayer. And kicked. Vroom. First kick, I kid you not. Plumes of smoke billowed from the exhaust and blocked out the sun, the thunder of her engine rattled the pebbles on the ground below her. In reality it was slightly less dramatic, but I was floored. I wanted her. I needed her.

The crafty fox Gopi noticed, and I could see the price go up. As I communicated my intentions to Gopi through my version of Tamil, I could see the gleam in his eyes. Hook, line, and sinker. We shook on 20k. He would polish her up, get her fitted with lights, a horn (not that she needed it, but just in case), and in general get her ready for the road. Well, in a general, more-or-less, you'll-keep-coming-for-repairs kind of way anyway.

I remember the first time I took her out on the highway, from Chengalpattu to Singaperumal Koil. I remember the raw, untamed power, and I was scared stiff to turn that accelerator more than absolutely necessary. I kept accelerating and pulling back, afraid that I was going to be the First Malayali in Space if I went too fast.

Slowly though, I started getting used to the intricacies of handling a Bullet.  "Bullet" Gopi liked to say, not everybody can ride a bullet, it takes "telunt" (loosely translates as "talent" in English) and a "neyck" (knack, n, A special way of doing something). Another of his tactics to reel 'em in. Well, it took a hell of a lot of patience too.

Gopi fleeced both me and Ashan mercilessly. If it wasn't the lights, it was the kicker. If it wasn't the kicker, it was the brakes. If it wasn't the brakes, it was the clutch cable. Oh boy, the clutch cable. How many times that thing snapped on me. Sometimes, she would just refuse to move. For no apparent reason. In the middle of nowhere. And just when you start contemplate ditching her, she would come to life again and chug along. Like nothing ever happened.

She still needed a name. The One Who Writes For Food, declared her a "chick magnet" on sight, and suggested a nomme de guerre. Black Magic. And "Black Magic" she was named.

Boy, did she work some magic, Ol' Black Magic. The Prospective Missus declared, "I don't get on bikes, what if it topples over?!". And then she saw her. In all her patched up glory. Black Magic just had this neyck with people. The lady said Black Magic spoke to her. I don't know what they talked about, but she agreed to a ride, and the rest is history.

Well, not exactly. She ran out of diesel 2 minutes into the ride.

Long story short, The Missus stuck around inspite of that fiascoed, first bike ride. She loved the big, black, noisy, smoke-belching machine, right down to the tiny lights that never worked. She doesn't approve of my current ride, a Star-City, not one bit, she thinks that bike is the devil incarnate. But Black Magic was her favourite. She still asks me sometimes, "What do you think Black Magic is doing now?". A bit of luck there, I guess. But more than that, a bit of Black Magic.

Black Magic made sure that every day was an adventure, in some sense of the word. Another story, another time maybe. Till then, ride safe, and wear a helmet!

The Fourth Station.

Crack!

Pain. Like a thousand arrows that pierce my body, it flows through my veins.

Crack!

Like a metronome.

Crack!

My knees cannot hold me up anymore. Through the haze, I can hear men talking. They whisper among themselves. They push each other, for a better view.

Crack!

Like a metronome. Why do they persist? I stumble. My leg gives way. I feel every grain of sand, every piece of rubble that claws into my knee.

It is not sweat that blinds me. Not anymore.

Crack! "Orthonomai!"

I am dragged back to my feet, I can hear men whispering. I cannot see their faces. Lightning lashes through me. Again.

They whisper my name.

Crack!

Hold me. For I cannot stand. And even as I fall they mock me.

"Basilias!"

The whispering ceases. The wall of people separates to reveal her. That face. I would recognize it anywhere.

Her hands are wet with the tears she tries to wipe off her face.

The world has suddenly gone silent.

*******

I am a child again, in the fields. Running. Falling. And even before it hurts, those hands, hold me close.

"I'm here."

"I'm hurt, mother!"

"Not anymore, I'm here."

*******

Or has it.

The hands reach out to me, through the blinding light. And they barely graze my cheek. She is pulled away.

The haze settles once more.

*******

"Not anymore, I'm here."

*******

Crack!

Like a metronome.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

Orthonomai! : "Stand up!" (Greek)

Basilias! : "King!" (Greek)

Stories From Long Ago - Part I

"So...?"

"So tell me a story."

"A story? What kind of story?"

"A story from a long time ago. When you were little."

"Hmmm, let me try to remember."

"Fast, 'cos I'm sleepy."

"Ok, ok. Once upon a time..."

***********************************************************************

Life was simple. The world was so small. The sun rose in the east. Which was across the highway that ran past the gate. The long, straight road ran from the north to the south. That meant, if I faced the sunrise, and spread out my arms, my left arm would point towards Jammu and Kashmir, and to my right lay Kanyakumari. 

I couldn't play in the sun because I would fall sick. I couldn't play in the rain because I would fall sick. I learnt how to spell "apparatus" while hooked to an oxygen tank at 3 in the night, because I couldn't breathe. Also, there was nothing else to read. My dad read The Count of Monte Cristo aloud to me, when I fell sick, and I liked their names. Fernand. Mercedes. Luigi Vampa. The Chateau d'If.

I didn't like travelling in buses because they were crowded, and they made me want to throw up. Trains were ok. Mom used to leave every morning at 7, and come back at 7 at night, on a train. My Dad and I would drop her off in the morning and pick her up at night, on the IND-Suzuki. It rained one day when we were coming back from the railway station. We were getting wet. Dad made me sit between him and Mom. I didn't get wet. "Tell God to make it stop raining", said my Mom. And I did. And it did. In those days, miracles happened everyday.

The "Seven times" table was my Everest. I could never figure out the intricacies of that weird number. But one day I finally tamed it. I couldn't wait to tell Mom. But I had to wait, because the train was late that day. It finally came.

"Mom, Mom, Mom, I learnt the seven times table!". 

"7 times 1 is 7, 7 times 2 is 14."

"...7 times 8 is...7 times 8 is..."

"It's..."

"No, Mom, I know it! Wait, wait, wait, 56!"

"...and 7 times 10 is 70!"
There. The flag had been planted.

I couldn't speak Malayalam. I could speak Konkani. No one spoke that at school. I could speak English. No one spoke that either. "Speak English" said the painted sign at the top of the blackboard. I was confused, because the teachers never spoke in English either. Everybody ran around during the break. I never ran because I wouldn't be able to breathe at night. I would sit watching other kids run around, and munch on my jam sandwich.

One day I felt like running, and I ran. And I heard another kid yelling and crying behind me. Apparently while sliding out of my seat, I had knocked over the desk behind mine, and it fell on his leg. He was taken to the hospital, and I had everyone telling me how I had broken his leg, and made him miss classes. I couldn't understand the big Malayalam words they used, but I got the point. And I didn't know how to explain to them in Malayalam that "I usually don't run around, this is the first time I tried to, and I didn't do that on purpose, in fact I didn't even know the bench was tottering behind me.". So I became the bad boy who broke the other boy's leg. I didn't bother running after that. It was pointless anyway.

*****************************************************************
"You there?"

...

"You're asleep, aren't you? Ok then? Goodnight?"

...

Click.