The Return of The Dali - The First Try.

*Clockwise. Anticlockwise. Upside down.*

*Clockwise. Anticlockwise. Upside down.*

Hey man, how about another one of those Galacticky thingys?

*Clockwise. Anticl...Well, wiping glasses kinda sucks doesn't it?*

I said, HEY MAN HOW ABOUT AN...

I HEARD YA! GET IT YERSELF! I'm outta this dump!

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

That was a year ago.

A year. Chasing a ghost.

Well, not so much a "ghost" than a "temporally challenged midget".

I've been here, there, then, now. Everywhere and everywhen.

All I've got after all this is this weird code.

It was carved into the adamantium countertop at the R@EOTW.

goo.gl/dsiEt

Where are you, d'Argh?

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

The Culinary Delights of Singaperumal Koil

Two months ago, owing the strange combination of an ambiguously worded notice and an irate priest, I found myself back in the Middle of Nowhere, aka Singaperumal Koil. And I found myself getting nostalgic at every dusty turn of the road pockmarked with potholes. The railway cross, where the gate would stay closed for hours on end, waiting for the Pondichery "Superfast" to please, for the love of all that's holy, to crawl by. The bikes weaving their way under said closed railway gate, some of the drivers' contorting their bodies through impossible angles to do so. "Nellai Jeyam", or "Three Star" as it was nicknamed (...another story...) with it's overpriced, oily food. The beautiful evenings, yes, the evenings are actually beautiful here. 


This once-laidback town is now the hotbed of activity. With it's proximity to the Mahindra World City SEZ, the town is an easy option for all those lazy bums who can't even begin to think of a one-hour commute at ungodly hours every morning. And with it's cheap rents it certainly seems like an intelligent option as well. After all, when your colleagues wake up at 6.30 to catch the local sardine can to earn their daily bread, you're still fast asleep. You wake up leisurely at 8. A quick wash, and half an hour later you're at your seat. Just in time to watch the bedraggled souls from Far, Far Away crawl in. Hah!


But wait. That's just one side of the story. The other side surfaces around 8 in the night, when you are done earning your daily bread. Any SE worth his obfuscated code will know that the salary he earns is not meant to withstand continued forays into The Employer's Food Court. And thus the junta tries various tactics.


For example, The Barber used to survive one a scientifically crafted diet. His daily intake went something like this. His breakfast would mostly be a poori or a dosa of some kind from the food court. This would last him till around noon. But he would extend it's lifespan with a chronologically well-placed cup of coffee from the Coffee Day vending machine. Now comes the centrepiece of his master plan. Everyone else left for lunch as soon as the clock struck half past twelve, and would be waylaid by the incredibly tasteless, and yet vividly colorful and expensive dishes on display at the food courts. 70 bucks and an extremely unsatisfactory lunch later, we would be back at our seats. And then, Barber would head out.


See, by now, there would be nothing available at the food courts except Vegetarian Meals. Again, incredibly tasteless. But amazingly filling and of course, cheap. As long as there was no choice to make, it became easy to do. "I'm having this because there's nothing else. Damn. I'm saving a lot of money."


The advantage was two-fold. One, that vegetative mix of rice, and vegetables, just sat around in your stomach for a long, long time. So there was no question of busting another 30 on "snacks" at teatime. Two, the money of course.


The Barber. Financial Planner Extraordinaire.


Anyways, once this lifestyle of "Company Food-courts" blew a hole in our pockets, we would have to turn to the Culinary Delights of Singaperumal Koil. Street food.


Now, I have to put up this disclaimer. If you:

• are one of those people who care about things like "hygiene"
• are one of those people who care about things like calories
• are a Non-Tamil/vegetarian/looking for food from your part of the world
• are a girl

forget about it. Street food is not for everyone. It's just one of those things. You don't mind it, or you do. If you don't like street food, don't have it. But don't try to convince a Believer. You're just wasting your time.


No, you won't feel like eating it if you see how it's made.
No, it's probably not clean, but hey, everybody eats it.
No, it's loaded with everything that's "supreme" as far as "taste" goes, and "questionable" in every other factor.
No, you will not get North Indian food here.
No, you will not get Kerala food here.


You get the drift.


You can't be dicey about having the fare. You dive in the deep end. If you feel the need for street food, don't let your better senses come in the way. Go on. Dive in the deep end.


The cornerstone of any roadside food stall is the porotta. With absolutely zero nutritional value, this fluffed up disc made of maida is extremely popular among the working class. Why? Because it fills you up and takes a long time to digest. Good enough.


Eggs. There's your sunny-side-up sprinkled with pepper. Yeah, we call it hafaayil. "Half boiled?". No. Hafaayil. Then there is the aamleyt, the country cousin of the omlette. The one-seyd, which is like an aamleyt, except that it's not flipped over, leaving the top jelly-like, yummy.


Decidedly, the best thing you can ask for at any roadside stall is the kothu porotta. infiniteascent dug up a Wikipedia page for this delicious mix of porotta, tomatoes, eggs, and onions. I tell you, you have not lived until you've had this Food of Gods.


Kal Dosa is the cheapest dosa around. The guy slops down a bowl of dosa mix on the sizzling tawa, and shapes it into a thick disc. With the same bowl! Pile two of these onto a plate and douse them with sambar, and you're full. If you want it thin and crispy, you don't ask for a "ghee roast" or "paper roast", like you do at those elite, cutthroat, "high class" vegetarian restaurants. Instead you ask for a nice. And, voila, you get this elliptical, wafer-thin expanse of dosa, folded-up but not folded-up enough to prevent it from hanging over the edge of the plate and scraping the table, as the guy plonks it down in front of you.


Idlis, are cheap, and fast, but not easy to come by. And they sell like the hot cakes they are. So if it's around 9, forget it, you will not be having idli for dinner.


Like I said before, street food is not for everyone. And when I first set foot here, it wasn't for me either. But Singaperumal Koil has this habit of growing on you. I didn't realize it but by the time I was ready to leave a year ago, I had become a regular at most of the 4 or 5 roadside stalls that dot the service road from the Railway Station to Thirutheri. The Thoothukudi, famous for its kothu porotta. The kal dosa of Nellai Jeyam, before it sold its soul and went the "high class" way. The steaming idlis of Aandipetti. The vada from that nameless place near the Singaperumal Koil railway station.


I never thought I'd say this, but when I do finally get out this place, I am going to miss Singaperumal Koil.

Red Skies.

Once upon a time.

Somewhere in Kerala. Or is it? I have been here before. I think I have. On a day like this when the sky shone red.

The temple gopuram rises majestically into a cloudless sky. I glance up, seeing its sepia tones light up the earth like a long forgotten photograph.

As I enter through the temple gate, I can see the sparse crowd of devotees making their way around the temple. The steady chant of mantras echo from the inner sanctum. Why am I here?

I see you. A face so familiar, and yet a memory of a life that's so far away in the past that it seems like a half-forgotten dream. Do I know you?

Your eyes are still the same. But how do I know that?

And an eternity passed but the sun still hovered, just above the horizon, as the sky shone red.

The throng of devotees glance at us as they pass by. There is no time. We have to complete the pradakshina, before the sun sets. Why? Why do we have to? Why can't we just stay like this, here, as the sky shines red?

It's raining, you say, looking up. Your eyes blink as raindrops fall from a cloudless, red sky. I raise my palms skywards, feeling them splash on my skin. I have to keep my eyes open.

Around us, I see the devotees walking faster now. Don't we have to make the pradakshina, before the sun sets, I hear myself asking you. You smile, as if humouring me.

You said, I start, my voice sounding accusing. I know, but there's still time, you say, taking my hand in yours. I have known you, from a long time ago. When we met on the banks of the Sarayu.

You told me then, that you would see me again. On the banks of the Sarayu.

The sounds of a raging river fill the air, as the rushing water tumbles over craggy rocks, throwing a mistry spray into the air. The stones paving the temple courtyard are dotted with the remnants of raindrops from the cloudless, red sky.

The sun hides halfway below the horizon now, the last rays of the day lighting up the gopuram. The rain has all but stopped, leaving us both standing below the fading light of a red sky. It is time, you say, coming closer. But you said there was time, I say, feeling an inexplicable sadness. You said there was time to make the pradakshina, I say, petulantly.

I know, you say, but the sun is setting.

We just have halfway to go, I say. I don't know why, but we have to make the pradakshina. We have to. You glance westward, wistfully, and for a moment, the fading rays dance off the tears welling in your eyes. Or are they raindrops?

This is as far as we can go, you say, but I will always be here, on the banks of the Sarayu.

My fingers close around nothing.

Wait, I stumble, as I grasp at thin air. My voice echoes through the empty courtyard.

I must complete the pradakshina. I cannot turn back. The right shoulder always faces the deity. The shadow of the gopuram waits ahead, as red skies glow, and the sun slowly sinks below the horizon.

The light from the garbhagriham spills over into the courtyard, sparkling from the raindrops on the stones, like a thousand diamonds scattered on the ground. Like a thousand mirrors shattered. I look up and the rain comes down again, from a cloudless, red sky.

This time, I close my eyes, and wake up.

The Supershort Story Of How The World Ends.

Ctrl + Alt + Del.

Open Task Manager.

End process "superman.dll".

The world ends.

...Dammit.

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)

Stained

2215 hrs. 15 more minutes. “…washes the stain right off…” Why am I watching the Home Shopping Network? Click. “…meanwhile the race for President…” Click. “…que pasa…” Click. Click. “…Britney Spears declined to comment…” Great. Click. “…the clothes in lukewarm water…”

2231 hrs. The phone’s ringing. I didn’t realize I’d fallen asleep. “We’re downstairs. Where are ya, Johnny?”. “Coming”

“We’re making the drop at the St. Louis dock. North pier. Johnny, you and Castano, stay near the walkway. Pop anyone who comes out before me.”

2235 hrs. 10 minutes to drop time. Cold, cold night. Why would anyone want to be out in this weather? Why couldn’t they sit at home and watch TV? But again, with all the tripe that’s on, you might as well get out, make some money, pop some lead.

Franki was talking non-stop.

“…can’t believe Don Marco would’ve doubted me…”.

Yeah Frankie, you’d never let go of the chance to make a few more greenbacks, would you? So what did they pay you Frankie?

“…you listening to me Johnny?”.

Frankie was looking around at me from the front seat.

“What is with you Johnny boy? Too much television eroding your brain?”.

“I’m fine, just a bit…bit under the weather”.

“Under the weather. Under the weather? Who talks like that? I mean…”

2243 hrs. St. Louis dock. 2 Minutes to drop. “Alright, we’re here. Remember everything I told you. If I’m not back in 5, head back to the den, don’t speak to anyone. You hear me Johnny? Castano?”.

2245 hrs. Frankie was a nice guy. His only problem was money. He could never have enough. Don Barzagli had obviously seen this. Well in 5 more minutes Frankie was going to pay more than he could ever earn. The only problem was going to be Castano, the new kid.

“So Johnny, Frankie tells me you were out of town last week”.

“Mom’s sister’s funeral. Down in Texas”.

“Oh yeah? So how come I saw you down in Queen’s, Johnny? With Officer Barrigan.”  Castano was not asking, he was saying. I turned around as a gun pressed into my temple.

“You really thought I’d let you pop me off like that Johnny”. Frankie was walking out from behind the shed. “You think I didn’t know why you were here?” The gun muzzle felt icy against my head. “You’re a pathetic actor, Johnny, even with all the television you watch. Give Don Marco my regards”.

It all happened so quick. Castano’s feet slipped on the ice. He was dead before he hit the ground though. The gun in my hand was smoking. I fired a couple of shots at a figure vanishing into the dark. I heard the sound of a car starting. Tyres squealed on asphalt. And then I felt a warmth in my side. I’d been hit, damn it.

2330 hrs. Back home. Frankie jumped to the Barzaglis. They had men on the inside. Don Marco had known I was a cop. I was supposed to kill Frankie and Castano. But then I was still alive. It didn’t make sense. Christ, I was bleeding. I’d have to wash this T. Maybe I’d use one of them powders shown on TV. But it didn’t make sense. Why would Don Marco keep me alive knowing I was a cop? It didn’t make sense. Unless…

0032 hrs. They were showing Seinfeld on TV. Again. And then somebody knocked on the door. They’d given me an hour. I put my ear to the door, listening.

“Johnny, you there?”. Just as I thought, he’d sent dear old Iacquinto.

“…if you have blood stains on you shirt, maybe laundry isn’t your biggest problem right now…”  

“Fellas, break the door down…”