Wednesday, December 16, 2009

The Suicide Genome

"It's everywhere, omnipresent, the avoirdupois overwhelming. It's a pity, unfortunately, because we could've been so much. Ah, typically mundane, insanely inane." Talking to no one in particular, he took another puff at the cig, and tried to drive one-handed in a traffic which did not forgive mistakes. And he barely made it out of there with his license- not to mention his dignity- intact.
"Ah, the beauty of youth... and what arrogance. We think we own the world, but experience as a teacher sucks." He puffed again, singeing his lips in the process. His mind didn't seem to realize that it had nearly run out, and was now trailing ash over his t-shirt.
But somewhere something registered and he dropped it, much to the chagrin of a scooter behind him. The butt flew into his eye, resulting in utter turmoil.. but that wasn't his concern, and he ploughed on resolutely.
But his bike was of a different mind. After days of puttering on fumes, it gave up. "Tchah." One syllable would rarely have held within it such meaning, but this one did. He pushed it to the petrol station which was, thankfully in sight. "Ahh... my bad luck is getting better." He got to the station and held the tank open for the juices to flow. The sight of the petrol pipe put into his mind imagery too sexual to be mentioned.
In a daze he pushed it back out, and unmindful of the fact that the tank was still open, lit a cigarette, waving away the fearful attendant. "A sky so blue, a soul so untrue. Is it worth it?" he queried, taking a peek at the open tank. Petrol fumes were already in the air.
"It's worth it," he concluded, and dropped the smoking cigarette into the tank.

Friday, December 11, 2009

Boyz willz be boyz

“Boyz! Whatz yous doingz?” The metallic, hissing voice of the teacher caught them, and their bravado vanished, like breath on a razor blade.
“Don’ts yous knows yous shouldn’tz be outz at this times?” He rasped. None of the students teased him because of his bulky six-foot frame and rippling muscle. At sixty-five, the man was old and unpredictable. The boys steeled themselves, and couldn’t prevent a lisp.
‘We were out to get some whisky, sir,’ they said. ‘Join us, sirz?’ The boy winced at the slip of te tongue, and tried to cover it up by coughing.
The old man stared at them for a long while. Then stared some more, as if considering the best way to reprimand them. Then he stared at his bag of instruments as if to find the best way to torture them- the teacher was ingenious in his ways. The boys gulped, as he fingered the sturdy cane made of who knew what material that was his constant companion in the classroom.
Then he looked up at the night. And sighed. “Whatz brandz yous boyz drinking?” he rasped back, and rummaged in his purse. The boys gave audible sighs of relief mixed with amazement.
‘You drink, sir?’ one dared to ask, and the teacher glared at him for a moment as though wondering whether a lesson was needed, then nodded.
“I drinkz Blackz Labelz.” He gave them the money and directions to his house.
“There are two more of us, sir,’ the boys dared to say. The teacher nodded, apparently resigned to the fact that he’d have to put up with a bunch of nosy students if he wanted a drink.
“Comez fastz; dinnerz is waitingz.” The boys rushed as fast as possible.

Dedicated to a teacher I was much afraid of, and in awe of during my school years and after it. The man had a terrific tendency to sleep in class while still managing to keep order by his very presence. So unpredictable was he that even the Headmaster didn’t know how to respond when he fell asleep during a meeting. He, while believing in order and discipline, also said he believed, after “laughingz my headz offz when those tenth- A boyz playedz a prankz on the new teacherz,” that “boyz willz be boyz, and thenz theyz will be menz.” 

To you, Kothawalla sir. Cheers.

Thursday, December 10, 2009


The old man leaned on his cane,coughing his guts out, then he straightened, new resolve in his eyes. Said he in a strong, yet wavering voice: "I will not die.... not until..." Cough Cough Cough "...not grandson has lost his virginity," he declared with resolve.
His daughter fainted right then and there, his grandson grinned like a gummi bear.
And old grandfather grinnned back.

Much later, playing with his six-year old grandson, he said: "But we won't let them get away with the fortune so easily, will we?"

Friday, November 27, 2009

The Executionists

There was once a detective, who did his job only too well. He was drafted into a bizarre case of murder, a seemingly herculean task that none had been able to resolve, and in each case of homicide, the perpetrator left no clues at all.
The detective barely had time to understand the smallest vestiges of such a case. Which murderer, be he psychopath or desperate, would think of injecting each victim with a dose of poison, instead of simply hacking them up? It would have been cheaper. In the end the detective concluded that in each case the poison had been different. So the press lapped it up, and from the bar phrase, "what's your poison?" rose the Poisoner. A legacy to challenge Jack the ripper. Except that he left nothing behind.

Four months later, the detective was still working on the same case. The last one he investigated had been three months ago, and since then not a single one had occured. It was as though he had disappeared from the face of the earth.
Just then, a massive bomb fell from the sky, launched from an unseen aircraft. Inside it was the same poison, if the detective could have realized it- that had killed the last victim. The bomb blew up with a small bang, in the busiest and most congested section of the city. The damage was done. Within an hour, everyone within two miles of the target had died, with a poison that not only swept through the air, but also polluted the water, ruined food. Non-toxic, and undetectable by conventional means, it was several hours before the authorities realized what they were dealing with.
Terrorists, assassins, mercenaries, soldiers, everyone was contacted both above the ground and under it. Nothing. It was as though the bomb had dropped from heaven, a symbol of God's final gesture to his children. In three days, seven cities across the globe boasted the same status- bombs falling to explode and gases dissipating into the atmosphere. The world population decreased by a billion with the new consensus.
The world forgot all wars. All arguments. All misunderstandings. And came together. A smaller population, but a smaller world.

Far away, aboard the unseen aircraft, a man smiled as he watched the news. They would rest now, their work complete. Every time humanity needed culling, they would do it.
Without mercy and with extreme prejudice.
They were, after all, the Executionists.

Rorschach in real life

'The world is bad.' I ignored him, but he came after me, swinging precariously in my direction. Overhead, lightning cut the sky into half, and thunder shook my eardrums for a moment.

'You know how it began?' He asked, gesturing toward the sign he held in his other hand, which proclaimed, "The end is nigh".

I nodded, adjusting my trenchcoat. 'A comedian died in New York,' I said tonelessly. The man's dead eyes suddenly seemed focused, piercing, everything they weren't just a second ago, and the lightning lit up his short frame. My breath tightened in my chest, and all the fear and confusion vanished in that single second that he reached for me and with strength disproportional to his frame.

'Who killed Edward Blake?' he asked in an utterly dead voice.

'You... you're Rorschach..' I stammered.

'Who killed Edward Blake?' With a sudden stroke, his knee buried deep into my chest, and his sudden swipe to my throat cut off any noise.

The pain was enough that I woke up out of the nightmare.

Read too much Watchmen, you begin to see Rorschach in real life.

Monday, November 23, 2009

The Wanderer

C'est fin.
The man listened to the howls of the wolves in the dark desert wind. Each step took him closer to hearth and home, but each step was pained, was staggering, was failing.
Yet he persevered. Yet he plodded on, stopping for a brief drink to replinish his failing youth.
And as he walked, he saw, in the winds that swirled around him, insubstantial as smoke, yet as clear as day, his past self, walking.... a toddler, crawling, a puzzled look on its angelic face.... a young man, walking with the arrogance of youth. And he saw the future... an old, wrinkled, bent figure, plodding on with the aid of his withering cane.
The winds swirled, changing every second, and the man shut his eyes to them, looking out only on the road ahead.
And far away, beyond even eagle's sight, stood a tall, lean, dark-cloaked figure holding a long scythe, waiting, patient as the grave, unmoving as the stars, omnipresent as the desert wind.

"The baby, moving at a toddler's pace.
The youth, striding with arrogant grace.
The man, his walk punctuated with worry.
And the oldest, to his feet neither shackle nor hurry."

The Surgeon

The Surgeon stood ready with his scalpel. It wasn't often that his intellect, formidable as it was, found a suitable challenge. And this, he mused dryly, was not the sort of challenge he was looking for. Removing a three-inch shard of metal that hadn't even punctured the skin, was not to his liking. Not when he had stored nearly a gigabyte of medical data for an evening of quiet research.
But a job was a job.
Why? Because some old geezer had decided to formulate the ethics by which all future doctors would have to operate.
To Beelzebub with the Hippocratic Oath.
He stabbed down, into the patient's skin, once, twice, thrice..... A peaceful death, under anaesthetic. How.... pathetic. Two cuts, that severed the aorta and the pulmonary vein. All there were on the skin were small cuts, almost too small to be seen.  Except they bled, profusely.
Perhaps less than a minute before the patient died of internal bleeding. These cuts would not allow too much blood to flow out as they did in.
Beside him, the nurse's eyes widened. She may have been numbed to blood and guts, but not to open murder. Shock. 'What you need, Nurse, is a good kick-start.' He picked up the defibrillator, at its maximum voltage, and applied it to her temples. It did its work only too well. That left his apprentice. The scalpel flew through the air and lodged itself in the boy's skull. His eyes rolled up in his head.
The Surgeon looked upwards, to heaven, challenge on that blood-spattered face.
"I am Ozymandias, king of kings.
Look on, ye mighty, and despair!"
The Surgeon took his bow, and, like the assassins of mediaeval times, unsheathed his stilleto, and plunged it deep.

Ozzy Roy shook himself out of his reverie. Too morbid. He picked up the broom and began his lonely ascent from the bowels of the morgue. Pleasant dreams, he mused. The dead were chatty at this time of night, he felt, shutting the door.
The dead, in voices a thousand and none, spoke: "abe chup kar, chutiye!"