Showbiz

Short Story

It might have been years, but Miss Monica still turned heads. Regal in her posture and dressed in an elegant kurta, she seem to float in to the dressing room. The hustle bustle of the backrooms were familiar and nostalgic to her. Even though she was much older than many of the nubile young things running around her, she knew time had been kind to her. Men still had the admiring look in their eyes when they saw her. She made sure of that every morning, standing in front of the mirror for hours.

After a final look at her make up, Miss Monica stood up as elegantly as possible (just to give the young 'ones' a taste of real grace!) and glided out in to the garden where today's scene was being shot. Finding a shaded spot to stand, she surveyed the scene. Camera's were being set up, shouted commands and exaggerated hand movements indicating the directors and producers who were used to being noticed. Running around were also a whole band of sweating men, workers behind the scene who made the movies possible.

Meaningless to many, this scene was very dear to Monica. It excited her to think she was part of this scene, this movie, this great work of art. She felt like she was 17 again, when she first came into this business. The lights and money had dazzled her then. Now, she just smiled a knowing smile at the new girls who were coming into the business today. Their flushed and nervous face easily set them apart.

The commotion was slowly calming down. Everything was almost in place. Chairs were being brought in and chilled cokes being readies on trays to be served to the director. Beach umbrellas have been already set up to shade the delicate skins of the actors and actresses.

It was almost time. Monica went through her lines again in her mind. A perfectionist, she knew she had to deliver the correct line with the right emotion. She had practiced for hours for the past three weeks for this scene. She was startled out of her reverie by a voice behind her , "Okay every one; Get ready!"

Putting on her acting face, Miss Monica gracefully swayed into the market scene. With the shout of "Action", the stationary people sprang into action, turning the area into a busy market place. Monica started walking hurriedly, a woman hurrying home, and ran into the handsome hero. She faltered so genuinely that even a few people around her almost reached out to save her. Righting herself on cue, she turned around and shouted "battameez, dekhai nahin deta! (Shameless, can't you see?)". And turned around in a perfect huff and stomped off. At the shout of "cut", she relaxed and let her face relax into a natural expression.

The day was over. It was no use hanging around for her. She headed for the dressing room to take her make up off and then head home. Though 300 Rupees was not much, but these days anyone hardly paid so much for a few minutes work. After all, opportunities for 50 year old extras were not easy to come by anymore.

Rain

Short Story

The downpour was so unexpected that she was caught unprepared. The sun had been merciless in the past few weeks and the skies clear. 'No reason to carry an umbrella now ; was there?' she grumbled to herself. To make things worse, she had been caught between her school and home, on a straight desolate piece of road that had only one bus stop and nothing else. Her track and field skills came handy in the dash to a relative shelter. "I am already wet!" she thought disgustedly and was about to wring her skirt when she noticed she wasn't alone. Standing at the corner was a man..no a boy a little older than her, holding an umbrella open. "Why does he need an umbrella...the bus stand has a shade?" she thought to herself. Then she realised the rain water was leaking from the tin roof at that corner. But still she found it strange that the boy hadn't moved to a drier area.

The sudden rain seems to go on endlessly. It was getting dark. She fidgeted. No one else had come into the bus stop. It was a strange and awkward silence that hung between and her solitary company who didn't turn to face her even once. The silence pressed down until she could almost feel it pressing down on her back, and she was about to blurt something out when the rain suddenly stopped. The boy suddenly turned towards her, nodded and left. And it was as if someone had switched off the mute button, she could hear beyond the silence. But it was time to go home and her bus was there.

She hated rain. It made the world look grey, made her socks wet before she reached school and she would end up feeling the soggy things throughout the day. It had been raining since Monday now. Not even three days and things were looking even worse as her friend has managed to sit on her umbrella accidentally and break it. She would have to run for the bus stop again in the rain today.

But today she noticed the boy before she managed to hop the puddle before the bus stop. He turned to look at her and the acknowledgement somehow flattered her. She smiled hesitantly and asked "Which school do you go to?" He mumbled the name of her own school. Strange she doesn't remember seeing this boy before. But then she hardly looks at every boy in the school and he looked like a senior student. Her thought was interrupted as suddenly the rain took a break. She was disappointed. She had to wait for the bus and the boy will leave like the other day. But the boy simply shut his umbrella and waited. She must have looked enquiringly at him for he answered "I am waiting". "Waiting? for what or who?" she thought but then her bus was there and she had to make her way through jostling, wet people. She managed to peek through the bus window. The shelter was empty, the boy had left. It was impossible to see if he had boarded the bus. She sighed and her thought switched back to her history test.

"I am Tanima," she introduced herself on their fifth date. "Date?...ha ha, I am going mad," she thought. She seemed to keep meeting this strange boy at this bus stop just by herself. "Gaurav" he said without turning and then suddenly stepped off into the rain and left. She was startled and a little hurt at such a curt response. Like she cared!

But she did. It gnawed and gnawed at her for the next four days. The rain took a break for some days also. The sunny weather cheered her up and she almost forgot about her mysterious man . Then on Thursday she almost collided with him in her dash to avoid the rain. "Do you take the bus everyday?" the boy asked. She was startled and simply nodded. "Will you come tomorrow?" the boy again asked. "Yes, probably." "Will you wait for me then," he asked. She was too confused to do anything but nod in agreement. He smiled a dazzling happy smile, and then took off in a run through the rain. She was flustered and her cheeks were hot. Did the boy like her?

She had felt this great anticipation the whole day next day and could wait till the bell rang and she ran to the bus stop. It was empty. But he did ask her to wait, didn't he? So she waited. And waited. The rain was cold. It started to grow darker and darker. Still she waited. Finally, she left. Feeling bitter and embarrassed for having fallen for something so ridiculous.

"Will you wait for me?" she woke up with a start with that voice in her head. And sneezed. She had managed to catch a cold thanks to her fruitless waiting. As she dozed off after having medicine, she whispered in her mind "But I waited and you never came!"

The boy held his handout and asked "I was waiting for you, shall we go?" Tanima felt happy and walked out with him.

Tanima's death shook everyone because no one had thought her cold was that bad. Her fever had climbed dangerously and she simply never woke up.

........

Rajiv wished he had never transferred to a new school mid season, specially during monsoon. He hates rain. He was getting drenched to the bone as he dashed to the only bus stop in the vicinity. He was about to repeat a few choicest curses he had picked up recently when he noticed the girl in the corner. Always sure of his good looks, he turned and said "Hi, I am Rajiv".

"I am Tanima."

When Life hands you lemons…….

short story

Sometimes life hands you lemons so that you can become really good at making lemonade. Of course, there are some who simply cry hoarse about the lemons that life keeps giving them.

Mrs. Karthik fell into the second category. Her misery knew no bound. The whole mohalla was aware of her misfortunes, her useless husband and her delinquent children – literally!

Every morning at the crack of dawn, Usha Karthik would make it a point to startle the Rooster awake with her lament, which inevitably started with the dramatic exclamations of “Hay hay hay…”

Umapathi, the useless husband, worked in the field and made a quick getaway early morning in the guise of work. His land lord appreciated the extra effort Umapathi put into coming so early to work.

Life was routine until Usha decided she needed some money and rented out a part of her Chawl. After much screening, she settled on Laxmi Bai, the wide-eyed, tongue tied and rather stupid looking maid who worked in a nearby apartment complex.

Next morning the unprecedented happened. Both Usha and the rooster were startled awake at the sound of crashing utensils. Soon, this was followed by the sounds of several other crashes and curses. Usha, forgetting her routine, went to investigate and found a bushy tailed butterfingered Laxmi with the house in array.

In the days that followed. Usha discovered Laxmi Bai was the most uncoordinated butterfingered maid she had ever come across. Between the dropped dishes and the litany of curses coming from her tenant, Usha soon lost her daily listeners. All she could do was wait for Umapathi to return and then start her complaints.

As the months progresses, even this became problematic as Laxmi bai was as good at dropping things after dusk as she was at dawn. Usha changed her strategy and started to meet Umapathi at the outskirts of the mohalla and complain on the walk back.

Of course, walking back and forth through the mohalla meant Usha had to put on her finery and dress up, which went against her lifestyle. But what is so small a sacrifice for being able to complaint to an avid listener again. So, the mohalla found itself shocked by the specter of a dressed up Usha Karthik walking by on a nice evening.

But Umapathi never came before dusk. That meant Usha had to put up with the noise through out the day. So she made a little more change in her lifestyle and started visiting the neighbours and actually talking to them instead of her usual complaints. That wouldn’t have done much good to her plans of getting invited in.

Six months to the date Lamxi Bai took over the rooster call, Usha found herself in a dhaba with her family having a decent meal, on the rent money of course. Life had changed. Suddenly, Usha could find no lemons in her life to cry about.

Then news came that Laxmi bai had finally broken the most coveted family heirloom in her employer’s house and had to be dismissed. Usha’s sigh of relief was well heard even a few blocks over and she tried hard not to smile at the prospect of silence.

However, she did wonder why Laxmi Bai was so happy to be fired. Laxmi, too preoccupied in her own thoughts, never noticed the contemplative expression on Usha’s face. She was already thinking about how she was going to start a tea-shop. After all Umapathi had been generous with his payments. It was indeed lucky for her that Umapathi’s employer liked stage shows.

Heart burn or destiny!

A Short Story

Life leads people to weird destinies. When I was ten I dreamt of becoming a driver. The white uniform, the cap and the ability to drive the four wheeled monster was in my eyes superhero stuff. When I was 30, I was already on my way up in life and had a driver who drove my luxury sedan. Driving in rush hour traffic, the news papers wrote, is the top cause for young men’s death.

Life had been good to me. I put in my hard work at school and college and found myself among the ever growing bunch of successful businessmen. I had champagne at night and wrote down numbers in my blackberry. Life was good.

But sometimes, right between the morning cup of coffee and closing the car door, there would be a few seconds when something like an ache will build in my chest. Some ones lost voice will whisper, wasn’t there something else you were suppose to do? My first suspicion was indigestion, followed by an EEG for the fear of heart trouble. And last but not the least a counselor to test my stress level.

Things were normal for months after my panicked rush. Being a bachelor, my panics was however not noticed by any and I felt safe to continue with my life. Looking back I think I would have been alright if I hadn’t fallen in love. In fact I fell in love twice within the space of seven days. First with Laura, the vivacious teacher from Goa. And then Kusum, the half blind rag picker and one of Laura’s students.

Let me tell the story properly. I was attending a seminar on social responsibilities of the young and rich. It’s among this mixed bunch of fresh young tycoons and tired social workers that I met Laura. She was not actually beautiful, come to think of it. She was however supremely confident of what she spoke. It wasn’t passion, it was conviction that set her apart. As I stood there talking to her and listening her plans for teaching rag pickers, I suddenly realized I had no clue what I want from my life.

Next Sunday, when I walked out onto my terrace and the ache in my heart returned, I didn’t call a doctor. I called Laura. Surprised and to some extent skeptical about my interest, Laura took me to her “school” nevertheless. The drive to the slum was uncomfortable, even though I was not able to slam the seal of “social worker types” on her.

It was dirty, smelly and chaotic. I hesitated at the door of the car. I don’t know what Laura saw in my face but I found myself facing the delicate outstretched hands of that woman. Swallowing my ego and long dead chivalrous thoughts, I actually took the hand and stepped into my destiny.

In the school, which was small ground in the middle of the small slum, there sat 12 odd girls and boys, faces dirty and dresses torn, laughing like mad. I think I must have stopped to stare at their face, because I felt a tug on my trouser legs and looked down to see Kusum. Small for her age, with a serene expression that looked years older, she led me to an upturned drum, cleaned it with her already dirty dupatta and set me down.

It was an experienced that made my skin crawl. I had no time to give to this people. They had always existed and always will. It was not for me to interfere. But Laura was doing it, happily. An architecture graduate, she was from my side of life. And somehow, I felt as if she had crossed over somewhere better. And I was stuck in limbo.

My return to professional life wasn’t smooth. The ache grew to the extent where I actually had to consult a doctor and was diagnosed as having mild ulcer. I was told to reduce stress in my life. I was lost. I had met Laura a couple of times after that visit and had found myself falling for her. And I shut up the little voice inside by arguing that it was love that clouded my perception.

But I kept thinking about Kusum and her serene face. The un-seeing eye seeing more then mine. The kind gesture, which I didn’t reciprocate. And then came the clincher. Laura informed me she was moving back to Goa, where she believed her work was needed. For a 30 year old in love, break ups are very confusing. I was very mature and told the love of my life I understood. I didn’t. I felt like smashing vases.

With Laura gone, my life was again thrown into chaos. The little voice was pestering me to see Kusum, now that I could not argue about love. I lost the debate and after years of making a professional life and career, I suddenly felt happy about handing in my resignation. There was twinge of pain in seeing the shocked look on my mothers face when I told her. But I was giddy with love. I was going to see Kusum.

In what has been the most dysfunctional relationship in my life, Kusum led me through hoops as I led her through childhood and puberty and then teenage. She was destined to be kind caregiver though and chose her path in following me as a teacher. I was, by then, an old teacher with a small school. Laura was by my side. Not as my wife though. Our mutual destinies never intertwined, though I always had her with me in every step of my life. And when I sit in my wicker chair with a glass of chai in the hand, I know the pain in my chest is definitely a heart problem.

A Home For Chutki

Chutki was one of the privileged lots. Having a mother for a stray and a well kept Labrador for a father gave Chutki a rather unusually sweet puppy face which seemed to floor all the kids in the gully. Of course, that also meant the other ordinary looking strays picked on Chutki. While Chutki’s mother defended him valiantly at the beginning, soon the puppy started getting stronger on a rich diet of leftovers secretly smuggled to him by the kids in the surrounding area, and started to fight back on his own.

But for all his fighting, Chutki remained an adorable puppy in his heart. He played with the kids and slept in the backyard of Keya’s house. Only 16, Keya was not as privileged as her loyal friend Chutki. Owing to an accident before birth, Keya lost the use of her legs from spine downwards. However, growing up in the confines of a wheel chair didn’t dampen her enthusiasm for life. And Chutki added to the fun.

Nilima, Keya’s mother found Chutki’s presence bothersome. She always thought of her daughter as vulnerable. May be seeing her fighting for her life in a incubator after birth and then being confined to that dreaded wheel chair made her think of Keya as a fragile thing. And Chutki was full of infections, bacteria and dirt. Mother and daughter often butted head over the stray mutt, but Keya always won. Nilima could never so say no to her daughter. But the issue remained and came up every time Chutki disgraced himself by doing something “bad” near her mother.

But Keya had a staunch supporter of Chutki in her much older sister Shreya. Wise and motherly even at the age of 27, she always looked after Keya with great patience. So when Shreya finally found her match in life, Keya was both happy and sad. But there was shopping to do, arrangements to be made, which kept Keya busy; too busy to even take care of Chutki. But Chutki took no offense and continued to sleep in the backyard.

The night before the wedding, the house was full of relatives and chats continued till midnight. There was laughter and happiness in the air and even Chutki dozed off with a warm fuzzy feeling that came off from the house. Soft, dry leaves gave the puppy a comfortable bed and soon he was snoring away like Keya’s aunt and uncles.

But sometime right before day break the whole household woke up to screams and squeals. A man’s voice shouting for help could be distinctly heard, along with the sharp barks of several strays from the street. Lights came on and the whole family rushed out to a very horrific scene. Chutki, looking much terrifying then his usual cute self, was hanging on to the leg of a masked man who was trying to use a knife to get the dog away. But Chutki, despite the few bleeding cuts on his body, showed no signs of relenting.

Soon, the thief was surrounded by a bunch of strays and Keya’s family. The police came and took him away. Chutki was rushed to the nearest vet by Keya’s father. When the dog returned two days later, he was the hero of the apartment and the darling of keya’s family. Nilima cried as she held the dog that had saved them from a great catastrophe. Chutki finally found his family and home.

A Portrait of Death

I have a friend who likes to photograph cemeteries. An odd interest that once made me ask him why? His answer was there was something about the calm of death. I had no clue what he meant. I have never walked inside a cemetery or even showed any interest. Somehow I have always been leery of being anywhere near the dead. But I followed him one day on one of his shoots.

We drove on his bike into the heart of the city, where among the snarling traffic stood a Christian burial ground, flanked by busy roads on all three sides. It was not in use any more he informed me, as the grounds were full. I got off the bike and stepped on to the pavement. My friend found us the small Iron Gate that served as the entrance. The ground was covered by dry golden leaves and looked desolate.

But the moment I stepped in through the gates, something shifted. The sound of the traffic suddenly muted. The grounds were cool and shaded by the ample canopy an old banyan tree. There was calm, a library-like stillness, as if everyone –dead and living – obeyed the rule of silence, but not in any sinister sense.

It was an old grave yard, as the dates on the elaborately carved headstones indicated. Some had four or five generations of family buried side by side - the De’ Silva’s and Gonzales’ enjoyed the quiet repose. My friend took black and white photos with his Nikon SLR. As he started snapping, I found myself walking between the graves, a little leery at the thought of dead bodies. I alternated between quiet calm and sudden spells of heightened awareness when the hairs on my neck prickled for no reason.

Slowly, as the hour progressed, I started to see pictures instead of just headstones. Sometimes it was the angle of the stones, sometime the writing on them, but they were telling a story. I called my friend over and borrowed his camera for a few shots, which he was happy to oblige. Couple of shots later, it was time to leave.

I never got the chance to look at those pictures I took. My friend and I had chosen different career paths and shifted to different cities, with no contact at all. But that day spent on the cemetery made me a little less leery about death had given me a strange sense of peace towards the finality of it.

If you are interested check out this link to some cemetery phototographs on the net http://www.pbase.com/marchael/cemetery

Life of a Reporter-A very short story

RCK, reporter sat on his chair morosely looking at the press notes in front of him..."This is my life" he thought. A life time of serving a very self-contained unprofessional organisation had left him no illusions of glory. "Twenty years....twenty years I have spent here...and what have a gained...a head full of grey hair?" He mused again.This has become a routine with him. Looking back, mulling over the "road not taken". He should have left when he had the urge to and not looked back.

But life had its own agenda...marriage...children...RESPONSIBILITY...That seem to explain the grey hairs. So what now? SO WHAT NOW????? His mind seem to be screaming at him. He looked out of the window...it was late night ..weekend was coming up. "It’s a lovely night" he thought and suddenly everything was clear...like a flash of lightening. He was whistling when he left the office that night, the security guard remembered. That was last any body heard of RCK, Reporter.