Thursday, December 15, 2011

Shamshan Galli- Part 1

"Betichudan maa ke laude, tera to mai pura khandaan ko chod ke narak bhej doonga."
He lay on the ground, not moving, whimpering at every word. The chain swung from the goon's hand- the very same chain that had once held the same neck that'd belonged to his wife. 
"Teri biwi ka to maine leliya, gand marke, chut phaadke. Ab mai kaunsa anadi ka bhatija lagta hoon, chamanchutiye? Tujhe vapas mere hi paas aana tha? Ek baari kaafi nahi? Abe gandu, tere us bheje ke andar kya bhagwaan ne sirf do takiye ki tatti bhar ke rakh diya kya?"
Again the chain fell, propelled by an almighty hand. Lakhan's screams echoed into the alley, but no one heard him; no one who wanted to. All around them the doors were shut, the lights were off, the windows barred; no one challenged the single man who stood on Lakhan's hand, grinding the sole of his heavy boot into Lakhan's fingers. 
"Ay, woh bhi jawan chut thi. Har jhalak me aisa nasha.. madarchod lagta tha ki uske har shabd ke picche ek aur awaj bol raha hai, mera chut hai bistar- aake tasreef rakhiye... aur aap to aisi rand ke pille, jiska dil dariya aur gand samandar." He paused in his whipping of the prone, bleeding Lakhan, as if coming to his senses.
"Betichod mai bol raha hoon woh sun bhi sakta hai kya? Tadka, kya is madarchod ke kaan abhi sahi salamat hai, ya kya mai likh ke report karu, dastakhat ke saath?" Tommy "Tadka" Jalal grinned back at him, then proceeded to lift Lakhan by one ear. "Tadka" he was called because of his love for food and drink- spicy, hot stuff- much like the girls he enjoyed. His immense girth was easily recognisable- no one else could down four chickens like Tadka could. Lakhan screamed again as his ears were nearly ripped off by the man's efforts.
"Bhau, lakta hai iske kaano me ab bhi jaan hai. Kai re mutreyaa, tula hindi yeet nahi ka? Tar kasha me Bangla bolu kai?" The grin on his bearded face vanished instantly, replaced by rage. "Chutmarike, ab tak jo hum bol rahe hai woh tere bheja me kya mujhe ghusana padega, garama-garam chaini ke nok pe?"
Lakhan shook feebly, trying to get his words past a swollen tongue and bleeding lips. His face was worse off than the rest of him, and that was saying something. Almost every bone in his right leg was fractured thrice over; he hadn't felt his left arm since five minutes back. His ribs hurt with every breath, and he bled from over a dozen wounds across his body, some wide gashes and others open holes in his skin.
"Tadka, isse edhar hi chodna hai, ya thoda insurance lena chahiye?"
"Pata nahi. Kya hume insurance lena chahiye?" Tadka asked the man, shaking him like a leaf. Lakhan tried to scream, but even taking the breath hurt, his throat was purple from when one of the goons had stomped on it. 
"Nahi.. mai kuch nahi bolunga," he managed to get out before coughing out blood, and his throat felt both dry and wet at the same time- there was so much blood on the streets that Lakhan knew he'd die if the bleeding didn't stop soon.
"Chal, thik hai. Teri biwi ki thukayi ke kasam, tujhe is baar chod diya. Agli baar agar haath uthana pada, to behen ke laude, sun le. Tere aakhon ke saamne teri bacche ki jaan leloonga- hathode se uska ek ek haddi tod dunga. Lekin tu zinda rahega- bena zabaan, kaan, haath ya pair; phir dekh tu police ke paas kaise jayega. Tadka, chod de. Ashfaq ke ghar pe naye raande aaye hai.. aur raat abhi baaki hai."
They left Lakhan there- battered, bruised, bleeding, but as they left, Lakhan fixed their retreating backs with the only thing he still had on him; bloody, brutal hate.
More to come. What goes around comes around- what you do unto others comes back threefold, and so on and so forth. Fun times.

Sunday, December 11, 2011

Adventures in Blunderland #1

It was night.
The world was unfocused; everything was like a mirror. Pieces of your soul would look back at you and say nothing.
The moon, that temptress in the sky, shone her light scantily, bathing everything in blue lines that stretched from end to end. The air, thick with the tangy smell of wet wood, seemed intoxicating.
There, in the blackness, something prowled; so he went towards it. In a jungle, you realize, common sense tells you whatever prowls is not the best thing to chase.
But in an urban jungle, common sense is a twit.
He pushed through the bushes, mindful of the noise he made. In a way it fit; the night had no noise, so never not think of creating your own. In a way, he was marking his presence. If nature was kind this night, the noise allowed him to be the alpha predator, one that didn't need to mask his presence. Nature is sort of unbiased that way.
The prowler turned out to be a badger, glaring at him through its beady eyes. The animal was large, easily coming up to his waist. How did he know it was a badger? Some things never change. He didn't need to specify what, because at that moment the badger sneered at him.
There is something terrifying in having a badger sneer at you. It's like the owl in The Fourth Kind, which often smiles at its victims. A chilling thought- how does an owl smile? And why does it smile? What is the reason behind that knowing stare so neutrally joyful? Why didn't the badger just go further into the bushes? Why doesn't common sense help with adrenaline, instead of letting him freeze to the spot and consider the badger's malicious sneer?
Because, common sense, in the urban jungle, is a twit.
'You shouldn't be sneering. Dumb animal you are.' So saying he put the badger in its place. The badger, thinking for a moment, stopped sneering, and indicated that he take a seat on the log behind.
'If I am a dumb animal, then would you say that I shouldn't be talking either?' it said in a crisp English accent. Strange, but he guessed that the British may have brought over more than they should have- somethings set roots deeper than revolution.
'You are a dumb animal. But for that matter I've met dumber people. So no, I think your talking to me does not make you dumb, but makes me question another aspect of this conversation entirely. Why are you talking?'
'You don't want me to talk, do you? PETA doesn't speak for all of us, you know. Some of us are inclined towards legalizing human hunting. The thing is, it just wouldn't be humane.'
'Hmm? It wouldn't be humane. Look at yourself. What do you have? Two legs? Two hands? You're bipedal. No claws. No nails, no scales- no teeth, no fur. To top it off, you taste like a week-old chicken corpse, what with all the nicotine and the alcohol and the substance abuse. You're a walking pollutant, and your carbon footprint's horrible.'
'I don't need to take this sort of abuse from you, do I?' He asked, slightly uncertain. If the animal didn't want to kill him and eat him, then why, oh why, the talking? Not to mention the high.
'It's because the vicissitudes of verity need a talking to. So does the monotony of murkiness; neither of them want to depress you anymore.'
'Because you scorn truth, don't you? Verity is by and large an unneeded phenomenon today, in these enlightened times.'
'You're like the caterpillar from Alice in Wonderland, except that was a bit more fantastical. A talking badger just doesn't cut it.'
'Pardon me. It's not my fault I don't have a liking for hookahs. And do you know the rates on a single giant mushroom these days? Thanks to deforestation they're getting rarer by the minute, so all the good ones are already taken.'
'I... see. That actually makes sense.'
'I hope so. You have a report to write tomorrow, I think.'
'Then get to it, I'd say.'
'Sure.' His time done, the badger looked back once more as it walked off.
'And would you like a last bit of advice?'
'Take it anyway. Don't talk to badgers at this time of night. Try talking to a snake instead.'
'Because unless I tell you to, you'll never wonder why.' So saying the badger prowled off into the bushes, its nose once again to the ground, in search of whatever savoury meats might be found.
Meanwhile our protagonist found himself walking, once more- and it seemed to him, the walk was too long, too quiet. 'I need to find a snake nearby,' he said to himself and went off to look for one.