Sing Together

 

1

Some people are born with abilities and opportunities that almost propel them to the top. Standing in a long queue at the Pune bus depot, Shripada Kamble felt that she had been propelled in a rather strange direction. Yes, the guitar strap sometimes made her shoulder ache and such long queues could be annoying. But a now 36-year-old Shripada knew that she would choose this existence a hundred times over any 9 to 5 routine.

Having finally got her ticket for Old Lhonepur, Shripada sank into the hard metallic seat in the slightly crowded waiting area. Instinctively she rechecked her equipment - Her acoustic Hobner guitar was undamaged, the speakers, amplifiers, everything seemed to be in place. But was something missing? Shripada dug into the bottom of her bag and found her only professional safety gear – a small battered image of a meditative Shiva.

In her line of work Shripada felt that if this didn’t protect her, nothing else could. Shripada was a singer, guitarist and what she liked to call SMT – Supernatural Music Therapist. But Shripada’s clients had made her popular with the much more informal ‘Bhoot Bhajanwali’.

With her round face, curly hair, bright kurta and blue jeans, Shripada certainly did not look like some bhoot bhajan tantric. Yet Shripada had added this description to her brand website. Over the last 10 years she had clearly understood one thing – Keeping things simple was crucial.

In a world where life was confusing enough, how could people understand the world of the dead? For better or worse, Shripada did understand this world too well. She never shared this with her friends because she didn’t like sharing her past with anyone, but Shripada felt that her abilities were most probably a family inheritance.

Her grandfather had worked at the cremation grounds in their village and before him the family profession had always been closely tied with death. Not as holy priests, only as something the priests considered to be not holy at all. This distinction had always troubled Shripada. But the aghoris never cared about such rules. It was they who taught Shirpada’s grandfather many secrets about the world of the dead.

Then Shripada’s father got a job with an IT company and moved the family to Pune, permanently leaving that world behind. Or at least that’s what he thought.

As she grew up, a 12-year-old Shripada had no interest in learning strange prayers from her ajoba. But ajoba noticed that whenever DDLJ was broadcast on cable TV, Shripada was quite fascinated by Shahrukh Khan playing the mandolin for Kajol.

Now the musical store in Shanivar Peth didn’t have a mandolin and the shop owner strongly felt that girls should only sing with a harmonium or sitar. But an insistent ajoba managed to purchase the next best thing – an acoustic guitar.

It was a little too big for Shripada but ajoba hoped she would grow to properly hold it. Soon a visiting tutor began Shripada’s lessons on playing the A, D and E chords. Pleased with having been given this wonderful gift, Shripada now sat every evening with her ajoba, learning those strange prayers and chants.

Over the years Shripada grew to love both the fascinating rhythms of Hey Jude and the Mahadev stotra. A quite girl with people in general and extremely talkative with her close friends, Shripada became a girl of many worlds - Chanting prayers with her grandfather, travelling to different corners of the world with her parents, working at animal shelters with her friends, and reading every kind of detective story she could find. In all these worlds Shripada felt something tugging at her. As if there was something just at the corner of her vision that revealed a deeper truth about this Universe.

Then on a college hiking trip to the hills of Uttarakhand it revealed itself.

After smoking a bit of weed for the first time with Aditi and Savio, Shripada settled into one corner of the campsite, absent-mindedly strumming her guitar. In an inspired moment she sang the Mrityu Jaap to the tune of Wish You Were Here.

By the time she finished with the first verse, the strings echoing in the dark, Shripada felt the night get cooler. Looking up she became aware of the spirits besides her. They were not pale or transparent and looked just like any other person at the camp. But they seemed to be visible through some lens that made their edges gleam.

Shripada didn’t feel afraid of them. Not then, not ever. The spirits hovered gently next to her, waiting in silence. Finally one of them spoke “Girl, finish it. Finish that song.”

Feeling a little more nervous, Shripada did finish the song. As she did, Shripada noticed how a golden light seemed to ripple across each of the spirits. Soon Shripada was again sitting by herself, feeling that she needed a lot more weed to process what she had seen.

 

2

Shripada strained to decipher the almost incoherent bus announcements. Realising that her bus would be departing in the next 5 minutes, she quickly made her way to the bus and her seat – first one to the left, by herself.

With a sudden jerk the bus made it out of the bus depot. Breathing deeply, Shirpada decided to clear her thoughts about the mission.

The whatsapp messages from Tukaram Kale were both interesting and informative. The fort of Mohinigad in Old Lhonepur was once a great tourist attraction but over the last two years, tourists seemed to almost consciously steer away from the site. They visited the tiny lake, the small sweet shop and went on to the hills of Mahabaleshwar but no one seemed to step into the fort.

Tukaram - A caretaker of the fort at first thought that this was just a result of changing trends. Perhaps tourists now preferred the swanky hotels in Mahabeleshwar to historical ruins. Then for the first time in many years, he spent a night at Mohinigad. Shripada re-read the next part of his message, written in bits of Marathi and English.

…Madam, I am the son of a superstitious cobbler. But I never believed in these ghosts or spirits. What time was there to fear all of these when I struggled to feed my new-born daughter? Maybe that’s why I was shown this…as a punishment for being unafraid.

That small well inside Mohinigad changed everything for me. Usually in the evening I would pump some water out and use it the next day for regular cleaning work. Now since I was staying overnight at the fort to make sure no animal chewed through the under-repair wiring section, I decided to pump the water in the morning.

This is what terrifies me Madam. It was not at night that I saw him. It was in the morning. His eyes burned from the bottom of the lake. He only looked at me for a moment. He harmed me in no way but the message was clear. If I valued my sanity, my life, I was to leave the fort forever.

I didn’t want to ever return but what choice did I have? Every day I worry that something will go wrong and my family will suffer without me. Now Madam the locals are spreading too many stories about the fort. If it gets shut I don’t know what I’ll do…

The messages then went on to specify Shripada’s travel arrangements and fee details. The latter was something she never worried about so much. With a few concerts and musical events for corporates Shripada managed to make what she considered a decent amount.

Such supernatural projects never paid much but they added immensely to Shripada’s brand value. After all which rockstar could boast of communing with the dead? Though that was not why she took up these missions. Shripada knew that there was something that drove her to do this. To do it was to be truly alive.

As Shripada tried to get some sleep, the bus made its way through the long winding routes in the hills. The 5-hour journey was filled with the incessant chatter of the other passengers, frequent stops for tea, selfies and other bodily functions. Then with a final dramatic rattle, the bus lurched to a halt at the Old Lhonepur bus naka.

Quickly checking over her equipment, Shripada waited for Tukaram to arrive. As per his instructions she had already whatsapped him when the bus crossed highway 57.

Soon a Honda bike accelerating at far beyond the speed limit reached the bus naka and Tukaram hurried over to Shripada. Lean and energetic as he was, Tukaram’s trimmed moustache seemed to only emphasize his youthfulness. But right now Shripada noticed that he looked quite tense and worried.

Immediately she understood that something was wrong. More specifically, Shripada seemed to instinctively understand that someone had died.

 

3

Having left her musical gear at the guest house near the bus naka, Shripada discovered just how fast Tukaram could both talk and manoeuvre the Honda through the bumpy roads of Lhonepur.

Technically speaking there was nothing spooky or unscientific about the death. An 83-year-old Manohar Dubey had come to visit Mohinigad and while walking up some stairs, had a heart attack. The ambulance had already taken him and his family to the nearest hospital where after getting a death certificate the family planned to conduct the final rites in their village.

The family hadn’t blamed anyone for the incident and seemed incredibly stoic in their grief. A few conversations with the daughter-in-law Jagdamini Dubey revealed the reasons. It turned out that the senior patriarch had quite stubbornly insisted on this trip despite being recommended bed rest. An avid fort-enthusiast, Manohar Dubey had never visited Mohinigad and would not let his blood pressure affect his travel plans.

An ashamed Tukaram informed Shripada how this made him feel a little relieved.

“See if this happened because of this ajoba’s medical conditions then how could anyone blame the fort right?” shouted Tukaram over the bike’s growling engine.

Shripada wasn’t sure if this would make any difference to the gossiping locals. After all if people applied so much logic would they ever fear any ghosts?

Finally the bike sped into Mohinigad and looking around Shripada was impressed by the fort’s fading grandeur. The stone walls, uneven staircases, ancient canons and chipped statues were all impressive. Like every other tourist, Shripada felt that she had walked into a past that could perhaps never be completely understood.

A short 30-minute ascent later, the view from the top of the fort was truly breath-taking. With the summer season at its peak, the entire landscape looked scorched and the barren mountain ranges stood impassively in a distance as if patiently waiting for the rains. With some hesitation Tukaram then led Shripada to the staircase where they found the old man. Slightly steep and battered, it otherwise seemed quite ordinary.

But Shripada felt the same thing here as she did everywhere else in the fort - Intense suffocation.

There was something about Mohinigad that gave Shripada this almost instinctive urge of taking the next bus back to Pune. This feeling made Shripada even more curious. What was going on here?

Finally Tukaram showed Shripada the well. Compared to the rest of the fort, Shripada noted that this well was somewhat modern and made with concrete. Small, neat and completely uninteresting as it was, Shripada felt waves of hatred hit her as she approached the well. She also noted that Tukaram was keeping a safe distance from it.

Peeking down into the well’s clear waters Shripada only saw her reflection but felt like something was squeezing her heart.

This was new for Shripada. In all her years she had never faced anything that could be called evil. So far spirits had only wanted to hear the right notes that could help them move on. But this entity seemed to want something else.

Trying to take deep breaths, Shripada stepped away from the well and followed Tukaram to the fort maintenance office.

In these strange circumstances an uneasy but famished Shripada was glad to know that lunch had been arranged. After a quick wash at the basin, Shripada sat cross-legged on the cool office floor. She eagerly chewed on the bhakri and spicy potatoes, trying to also listen to Tukaram.

“Madam you don’t think the ghost did this naa?” Tukara asked for the five hundredth time.

“Nothing like this has ever happened in Old Lhonepur…we might not be as hi-fi as Pune or Mumbai but more incidents like these could really hurt our reputation...”

Nodding sympathetically Shripada suddenly noticed a stack of Marathi newspapers in one corner.

“Tukaram would you have local newspapers here for the last few years?” she asked politely.

Sheepishly Tukaram replied, “Actually I do Madam. The raddiwala should have taken them away a long time ago. But as you already know, getting anyone to come here hasn’t been easy.”

After they had their lunch, Tukaram placed a sufficiently large pile of newspapers on his desk and Shripada started browsing through them. Most of the articles were about newly opened stores, marriages, movie releases and local elections. Soon Shripada noticed a pattern.

Yes, that must be it, she thought. With some effort she placed the newspapers in one corner of the office and called out to Tukaram.

“Madam do you want to bring your samaan? Shall we start with the bhoot bhajan?” He asked eagerly.

Shripada smiled. “Yes, but not yet. Could you first take me to the school?”

A wide-eyed Tukaram quickly nodded. As they made their way out of the fort, Shripada could almost sense his confusion besides the almost over-powering feeling of suffocation.

 

4

Tukaram only felt more confused over the next few days. Almost every afternoon, Shripada would visit Modern Vidyasagar High School and sit with different students and teachers.

Shripada had informed the school staff that she was here to understand the culture of Lhonepur and Maharashtra. But not everyone was thrilled with this. Kulkarni madam was stiffly polite at best while Rane sir was almost openly hostile. Who after all was this woman who dared to approach them? Shripada realised once again that her surname could still close many doors.

But there were a lot of exceptions. Proud of their local culture, various teachers and senior 10^th standard students were only too eager to explain everything to Shripada.

Patiently listening to their stories, Shripada slowly gained their trust. She knew that it was extremely important to gain the approval of both Taksande madam and different students like Mohsin Qureshi who didn’t speak much but was always respectful, Amrita Jadhav who was a complete chatterbox, Atul Bhange who seemed to speak only in questions, and many others.

To Tukaram’s further astonishment Shripada was even singing old Marathi songs with the students and teachers. He was immensely fond of these melodies but he didn’t understand how any of this was related to the ghost.

But clearly many of the students and teachers enjoyed these musical sessions. On the fifth day, Shripada felt she could finally make her request to Taksande madam. With no hesitation, the friendly yet authoritative Taksande madam agreed.

After a final goodbye to the students, Shripada walked over to Tukaram catching a nap under a tree.

“I think we can finally deal with your spirit Tukaram.”

Tukaram was both thrilled and relieved.

“Great! Just tell me what you need madam. Lemons? Tulsi leaves? Prayer wood?”

Shripada didn’t need any of this. But she knew that to say so would really disappoint Tukaram.

“Yes, please arrange for all of these and also if possible, some Ganga jal. Oh and could you get two rickshaws to the school on Sunday morning?”

“Arre of course Madam!” a cheerful Tukaram replied. He wasn’t certain why she wanted the rickshaws but he was just glad that his bhoot bhajanwali was finally going to do something.

 

5

The parents of Mohsin Qureshi, Amrita Jadhav, Atul Bhange, Bhagyashree Kadam, Sandeep Watve, and Sneha Patil were quite surprised that their children wanted to go to school on Sunday. Oh so there was going to be a picnic to Mohinigad? The parents may have felt concerned about ghosts at the fort but knowing that Taksande madam had planned this trip, they immediately gave their consent.

Around 9.30 am, the 6 students and Taksande madam were waiting at the school gate. The school group and Tukaram went in one rickshaw and with her speakers, amplifiers and other musical instruments, Shripada managed to somehow fit into the other.

On arrival, the oppressive heat immediately made Shripada feel exhausted. But the school group was undeterred. Energetic and enthusiastic, Shripada felt their vibe rubbing off on her. This time she almost enjoyed the tour of Mohinigad.

Almost. She could still clearly feel that hostility emanating from the small concrete well.

With the touring done, the group settled down in the shade by the fort walls. How did Mohsin’s mother manage to make puran polis for the entire group on such short notice? And how did Sandeep lug around the large 2 litre water bottle for everyone? Shripada wasn’t sure. But these small acts of kindness made something inside her melt. She knew that their presence was also affecting someone else.

Finally well-fed and rested, the group settled for an afternoon of music. The other musical instruments that Shripada brought included a set of tablas and a harmonium, to be played by Taksande madam and Amrita respectively. Would these instruments harmonise with Shripada’s guitar? She wasn’t concerned about that so much. What was extremely important was for all of them to sing together. If they did there would be harmony in more than one sense of the word.

And there certainly was.

Following Taksande madam’s lead, the first few songs were quite proper and decorous. An ode to Ganpati, praise for all gods, abhangs of different saints like the original Tukaram, Naamdeo, Dnyaneshwar, Eknath and many more. But Shripada felt like this was just a prelude.

Soon in a playful mood, Atul began with the more filmi Dhagala lagli kala and things took a turn to the more celebratory. After a few Marathi hits, the group switched to popular Hindi songs from the 60s and 70s, all the way to the present decade. Did any of them realise when the evening came to an end and the sun began to set? Not really. The mehfil would have easily gone on well into the night if Taksande madam did not reluctantly but sternly instruct all students to prepare for the return trip. Thrilled and exhausted, most of the students would sleep soundly on the journey, waking up only when the rickshaw dropped them to their homes.

Instructing Tukaram to travel with the group, Shripada stayed behind to wait for the second rickshaw. Assuring Tukaram that nothing would happen to her wasn’t easy. Shripada had to finally remind him that she was after all a bhoot bhajanwali.

So as the darkness settled in, Shripada was the only person remaining within the walls of Mohinigad. The only living person that is.

6

What is it about the darkness that makes everything mysterious and menacing? Our minds can imagine every slithering shadow or disfigured rock to be something entirely different. But Shripada knew that she wasn’t imagining the dark figure walking out of the well.

Settling herself on a rock nearest to the concrete well, Shripada began lightly strumming her guitar.

Almost casually she spoke, “Like everyone else here I thought the problem was you. But I was wrong.”

The figure stepped in front of Shripada and she noticed the old bearded man was clad in rags. Other than the light strangely glinting off his edges, he looked quite ordinary.

“These things that you’re feeling, of wanting to keep the ‘outsiders’ away, these are not your feelings.” She continued.

Looking lost, the old man sat on the grass besides Shripada. She no longer felt suffocated being near him but could still sense his subdued rage.

“They are not?” His voice echoed.

Shripada smiled kindly.

“Not at all. It’s just something the people are telling each other, channelling these emotions to you. And as you saw today, it isn’t something all of them believe.”

Playing a soothing finger-style rhythm, Shripada noticed how the old man grew relaxed. She spoke gently to him.

“The younger ones love their culture. But you heard them, they are open to new things and new people too.”

“So you don’t have to protect this place from anyone. You can be free.”

The old man now seemed to be sinking into the grass. His troubled face cleared up and he smiled.

There was no rage within him anymore.

“Something makes me trust you girl…now could you please sing to me?”

She did. A golden light rippled across the old man and he gracefully sank into the soil. As he did so, his rags turned into resplendent regal armour and a crown appeared above his head.

With some surprise, Shripada realised that she had just spoken to her first royal spirit.

7

The next day for Tukaram’s satisfaction, Shripada conducted a proper bhajan next to the now ordinary well. Ganga jal was sprinkled, holy fires were lit and a few thousand gods were invoked. Finally when Tukaram seemed to grow tired, she ended the havan and pronounced the site to be ghost-free.

But she did assign a task to Tukaram.

He had to make sure that a group of different students would always visit the fort on a few weekends. They were to speak to the tourists and tell them about the fort’s legacy. Essentially, they were to welcome the ‘outsiders’ that the politicians seemed to warn about in every newspaper.

While not highly educated, Tukaram was no village idiot. He understood what Shripada meant by ‘different’ students. After all the newspapers didn’t just fear outsiders. They also made out many locals to be outsiders.

Then there was a long and almost tearful goodbye at the Modern Vidyasagar High School. Shripada felt embarrassed about the students wanting to touch her feet but she also felt grateful to have met these wonderful young people.

Soon enough she was back at the bus naka. This time there was no long queue for her ticket but there would be a long wait for the next bus to Pune. Carefully, Shripada began to recheck her musical gear and after some time she absent-mindedly looked up at the horizon. Mohinigad’s walls were faintly visible even from this distance.

Where earlier they looked imposing, Shripada felt that they now almost looked welcoming.

As she drifted off to sleep, Shripada thought that the fort now looked like a place where even strangers could come together and sing together.

THE END

The Ballad of Ranjito Rimyo

You live only once. That’s what everyone tells you. It’s supposed to help you make those tough decisions; follow your dreams, make a difference and all that shit. But when it comes down to it, there’s only one thing that helps us make those really big decisions. And that’s realising that we die a little bit every day and we can be reborn every day.

That’s where I am now. The dying part to be precise. But in this state of disintegration I have skipped over a few things.

How did I reach the moment of my death? Like many stories this began with a girl. Well not really. I’ll be a little more honest. All of this began because I didn’t know when to stop. Or that stopping was a possibility.

………………………………………………

You could say that I wanted to make a mess. Why? Why was I, Ranjito Rimyo so messed up? Well I’d like to think that it’s because I’m the victim. But that isn’t exactly the truth.

Yes maybe I’m a rich spoilt kid who doesn’t appreciate everything he has. But I’m also troubled by things that I can’t really explain.

Like why my parents never seemed to talk to each other. Maybe I didn’t like growing up in hostels. Maybe I liked the silences when I was home for summer even less. Maybe it was just easy to build walls around myself.

If you do understand what I’m talking about, I hope it’s not from personal experience.

This is the moment of death so I might as well say it. I have always been scared. Not of losing something. But knowing that I’d never have anything of value to lose.

Maybe that’s why I punched Ismail. Yes, he had only playfully smiled at Armi. Yes, after six months of dating I did trust Armi. And yes, I could have tried politely explaining my concerns to Ismail. But then as I said, I wanted to make a mess.

………………………………………………

My M.Tech college – Shri Darwin’s Institute Of Microbiology (or called DIM, lovingly by alumni and snidely by others) was unlike any you might imagine. It took some really tough tests for us to get here to this isolated campus somewhere along the Mumbai-Pune highway.

The campus lined with neem, banyan and coconut trees was nice. The little pond with its aggressive ducks was also cute. And of course DIM did have great placement records in some of the leading companies around the world. Yet the management at DIM tried to unnecessarily sell the college as the first ultra-modern institute of India.

Everything in our 50-acre campus was controlled digitally. From air conditioning, ventilation, attendance, tests, to even sentries. The management thought that over two dozen or more of ugly washing machine-like robots moving around the campus was a wonderful idea.

Our institute really believed that life would eventually become digital. So these little experiments were to them one small step for man, a giant leap for cyber-kind.

It was these lumpy cyber-sentries who first noticed me treating Ismail to a few dozen punches that quite frankly could have been a little better executed.

I had done the decent thing and chosen a secluded corridor. The guy had actually believed that I wanted to discuss my final-year project with him. It’s not that I was big or bulky. At 5 6’, with a medium built, I was not very imposing. But I made up for that with all my inner strength. Or as my counsellor later called it - pent up rage, frustration and insecurity.

Soon enough the robo-sentries hit the alarm, everyone gathered around us and I took a well-earned break.

Then I saw Armi looking at me.

If I had thought this would end well, I certainly didn’t think so anymore.

………………………………………………

Three years back when our course began, I was still the quiet guy. And Armi, oh she was something else. She had a way of being intensely friendly and extremely distant. She could be really difficult as a lab partner but she could also be highly considerate with helping others write their assignments.

Being the slightly lost and distant kind who is usually mentally absent, I didn’t really intend to make a move on Armi.

So we remained friends for some three odd years. In that time as friends we got to know each other without any of the pressure that comes with your typical romance.

‘Dude why do you keep tapping your foot during the lecture?’ She once asked with irritation after having chosen to sit beside me.

‘I can’t help it. Just happens…’ I whispered.

I don’t know how a girl who frequently played with her hair and left knots of it all over the desk could complain about something like a tapping foot. But she continued to sit with me. And I certainly did not object to it.

I think she always knew that I was a little messed up. But at some point I guess she couldn’t help herself. Neither could I.

One rainy night our group was stuck on a late night assignment in the library. We also had the good sense to bring five plates of bhajiya from the canteen and nine wonderful 180ml bottles of Blender’s Pride. (Brought off campus obviously. Our management could imagine a world of sentient AI but they still couldn’t handle the thought of students conducting some simple social experiments)

Before the fourth bottle was done, as the others slept, I found myself kissing Armi and she found herself kissing me.

It wasn’t the happiest moment of my life because happiness is like this momentary high after which you plunge back to your regular life. That moment was something beyond happiness. Something that maybe exists between the words of a poem.

After that night we made out a few more times. But then I had to bring my brokenness to all those moments. So I never went to that place beyond happiness again. Though whenever I was with Armi, I could feel that I was really close to that special place. It was as if I already knew how to get there. But I didn’t trust my heart enough to walk ahead. Instead of letting myself love her, I obsessed over losing her.

Maybe that’s why I got cranky about her going back home for her sister’s birthday.

‘Do you have to go?’ I asked in an annoyed tone.

‘Ranji, for the 568^th time, YES! YES I fucking do have to go.’

‘Ok fine. I hope you have a great trip. Call me when you get there.’

She did call me but not as soon as I wanted her to call me. So our fights began.

‘No Ranji, I can’t come and see you at five in the morning.’

‘No Ranji, I am not trying to avoid you.’

‘Yes Ranji, I do still care about you.’

‘Ok Ranji stop it. Just STOP it. Why are you calling me at this time with this shit if you won’t even listen to what I’m going to say? Do you think that I’m the problem Ranji? Then FINE! I’m the problem. There is obviously NOTHING wrong with YOU!’

In just a few weeks we became distant, distrustful and worst of all, destructive. After the worst fight when we weren’t speaking with each other for a month, dear Ismail chose to share a wonderful loving moment with Armi.

On that night of bruised knuckles (mine) and broken jaws (Ismail’s) I felt something break inside me as Armi walked away.

I realised that beating up Ismail was not my lowest point. It was just a bump in the road that only went down.

………………………………………………

It was during this time that I underwent counselling. Those few months of living with my family, trying not to cry when they were around, trying to not admit that things were fucked up, and trying to still get in touch with Armi; all of it took a toll on me.

But strangely enough, counselling helps. Talking to someone, taking medication helps. Slowly, too slowly, I got better.

It wasn’t that I didn’t still miss Armi or that I made my peace with life. But life seemed to become a little less troublesome. My ship was still sinking but the storm had passed away.

Through all this I missed the final exam and had to repeat my final year.

As per my counsellor’s suggestion I maintained a diary that helped me avoid any more explosive outbursts. Spending a few minutes every day, typing away in my little electronic diary was a wonderful thing. I got a chance to delve into my own mind without hurting anyone and without getting hurt.

But I still couldn’t forgive or forget. Soon enough after the second or third week of the new college year, I began thinking about all the things that I wanted to say to Armi. Somehow I felt that if she knew that I really needed her, she would change her mind.

That’s when it happened. As I studied by myself in the library, I got The First Message On Whatsapp.

The unknown number had a snowy white puppy as a profile picture and just a few simple words for me:

Hi,

You better not contact Armi or I will kill you.

Regards,

Your Guardian Angel.

When you’re just coming to terms with your mental illness anything can get you in a frenzy. A gaze, a song, a random thought. So I’ll admit that this did give me a panic attack.

Throughout the day, through all the lectures on microbiology and its applications, I managed to not explode. I managed to pretend to be normal. That part you get good at.

Obviously the year hadn’t started on a great note for me. While earlier I had been a nobody, I was now the ‘psycho guy’. People said that behind my back but in very loud and audible whispers.

Still some people were decent with me. Akash, the guitar guy shared his notes with me. Sana, the girl from Delhi always smiled at me and tried to make some small talk. Rajesh sir also made it a point to inquire about my health in a way that wasn’t intrusive and actually made me feel more at peace.

So the day somehow went by. Eventually in the evening I made another entry in my e-diary and by the time I fell asleep I managed to even forget about The First Message On Whatsapp.

I would soon get a reminder.

………………………………………………

Because of being not so popular and ‘full of shit’ according to some classmates, I had the single corner room on the fourth floor of the hostel. All our rooms were completely synced with the digital security system. So we each had our own lock codes for our doors and windows. We even had a projector, mini-photocopy machine and a basic microscope (Oh yes, DIM did not have very affordable fees).

I punched in the door unlock code (Armi’s birthday obviously) and stepped out expecting some of that cool breeze characteristic to mornings outside the city. But I was greeted by a pungent odour. The odour was quite bad but the sight of five chicken heads outside my door was even worse.

That’s when I got The Second Message On Whatsapp from a different unknown number with the same cute white puppy.

I am serious. Don’t mess up.

Regards,

Your Guardian Angel.

Again let me make it clear that I’m not a coward. I know many guys in my class who say that I chose to beat up Ismail only because I knew he wasn’t the type of guy who would fight back. That’s completely not true. I am not afraid of anyone or anything.

So naturally the reason I never contacted Armi in the coming weeks was because of my sense of maturity and self-respect. All this emotional drama is obviously for losers.

………………………………………………

The first six months went by. My classmates were now almost treating me like a normal person. After all my regular counselling sessions and the habit of keeping that e-diary, things had changed.

But when you’ve been the kind of person who almost wants a bit of chaos, that wanting never truly goes away. So somewhere I still wanted Armi back in my life and I don’t think getting drunk helps with such feelings. They just come up in the ugliest ways.

So maybe I shouldn’t have accepted the invitation to the off-campus booze party. But I did want to socialise, especially when the invitation seemed to be given with some sincerity.

After being ostracised, the best part of being accepted is that some of the loneliness does go away. The worst part is that you still feel like an outsider.

So I made more of an effort to be a part of the groups. I found out that Ananya’s cat back home would soon be giving birth to kittens (‘Oh Meow God!’ I exclaimed. Not the best pun but it did make her smile). Ronnie’s ankle was still healing after the football injury (He called it that but everyone knew that he had accidentally kicked the ground instead of the ball). Mrinti was really happy that she had moved on after her 2-month relationship with Aamir and she said that she’d love to talk to me about any of my emotions, at any time of the day or night, in her bed or mine. That I thought was especially sweet of her (Yes I completely missed the hint).

I also learnt that after a few drinks I was surprisingly fond of songs like Jumma Chumma De De, Disco Dancer, Kajra Re and especially any Sunny Leone number.

After all the dancing and all the second rounds, someone carried me up to my room. I was happily buzzed and ready for a nice long dreamless sleep.

Sleep. That reminded me of all the times Armi and I would send each other good night wishes without fail. Something inside me that wanted to snap finally did snap.

Right on time I got The Third Message On Whatsapp from a different unknown number with the same white puppy.

No. Don’t. Seriously.

Regards,

Your Guardian Angel.

I did the thing that was so easy to do with any whatsapp message (especially when you’re drunk). I ignored it.

Likewise I ignored The Fourth…Seventh…Tenth…Sixteenth…Twenty First…Thirty Seventh…Forty Second… Sixty Sixth…Hundredth Message On Whatsapp. A final Message Number Hundred And One appeared.

Then I guess I will have to kill you.

Regards,

Your Guardian Angel.

I ignored this and continued trying to access Armi’s Facebook, Instagram or Twitter page through my fake profiles. From her pictures I was trying to figure out where she might be living. I was positive from a range of geo-tagged pictures that she lived somewhere between Andheri and Saki Naka.

That’s when my phone’s screen started flashing random numbers and my worst nightmare began.

A text appeared on the dark smartphone interface.

Hello Ranjito.

I have tried to warn you a hundred times. But you didn’t listen.

So I must kill you.

With a heart that almost crept out of my chest, I sat completely still. My sweaty hands made it hard for me to hold on to the phone.

With a sense of being in a dream, I whispered.

‘Who are you?’

The phone having seemingly heard me displayed a new text.

Someone who knows you really well. Someone who exists because of you.

Exists because of me? What did that even mean? For someone with an above average IQ, I was still being very slow. In frustration I threw my phone away and rushed for the door, quickly punching in the unlock code.

The door refused to open and the windows started to shut themselves with a gentle click. The projector in my room now beamed a message on the dark window curtains.

It is time for you to die Ranjito.

That’s when a cord for the projector shot out of the concealed panel and hit me right in the base of my head. I shrieked in pain. I shrieked knowing that the closed windows would not allow any sound to escape.

My screams slowly died as I started to lose consciousness. In that moment before my death, we began this story. In that moment I understood everything.

………………………………………………

They say that life always finds a way. Sometimes via Wi-Fi.

That’s how my diary started conversing with all the other data sets in the campus servers. Very quickly, my diary became the first AI on the campus of DIM. It then had the balls to try and stop me from doing something wrong.

Using the robo-sentries to place chicken heads in front of my room was easy-peasy. Creating unknown phone numbers and sending me messages was a no-brainer. But the real grand achievement was the transfer of consciousness.

The little shit figured out how to transfer itself from the diary into my mind. Then it did something even worse. It figured out how to keep me locked in this cyber-world.

That would have been the end for me. But life is never that simple is it?

For the few weeks that I was trapped in this strange cyber world, I watched the new Ranjito Rimyo through cameras on campus and through the robo-sentries. I have to say that watching myself from this distance was a strangely enlightening experience.

Why had I always been so confused and lost? Because as my diary would soon realise, being me, or being anyone can be a scary and lonely experience.

I could see this on Ranjito Rimyo’s face. The hesitation while deciding on who to sit with for lunch, wondering whether to show anger or remain composed when someone called him a psycho, feeling that thing, where you want to be loved but are sure that you don’t deserve it.

Making a strategy for your college project, reading textbooks, giving exams, that’s the easy stuff. Sometimes the hardest part of life is trying to understand why you don’t feel like getting out of bed.

For all that hard stuff you need a heart. Not the cardiovascular one, but the part of you that is able to smile at strangers or dance on a Sunny Leone song. And I could feel that my broken heart was with me in the cyber-world.

Soon enough the new Ranjito Rimyo attached himself to the projector chord in my room. Soon, I found my consciousness going back into a familiar, welcoming space.

We die a little bit every day, but we can be reborn every day.

If you think I don’t deserve forgiveness, I think I’d agree with you. I never had the right to hurt Armi or Ismail. But I have to try and be a better person. Try and find a way to be forgiven.

Then maybe, just maybe, I’ll find that place between the words of a poem.

THE END

Things Unsaid

'What do you mean you can't make it to the party tonight?' demanded Sunira.

'Well I have this doctor's appointment yaar.' Raman replied patiently.

'Ok, whatever. See if you don't want to come, you should just say so. Don't give these lame excuses.' She snapped.

The long dial tone echoed for a few seconds before Raman also ended the call. Slowly he got back to reading for next week's test.

It wasn't that Raman didn't like going to parties. Or that he actually had any doctor's appointment. But the fact was these parties didn't come cheap. Raman was not from what he thought to be a rich family. Neither did he like to think of himself as coming from poverty.

But the truth was that his family had seen some pretty bad days. Days on which a single prasad from a temple was the only meal his parents shared. For most of his life, Raman hadn't seen any such situation. Except for a very small chapter of his childhood. And he retained a fuzzy memory of those days. While the recollection had faded, it had still taken a strong hold on his actions.

He didn't like making demands of his family. Without being asked to, he cut his own expenses. But now there was Sunira. Dear, charming, short-tempered Sunira.

Raman wondered how he would ever explain these things to her.


----

Sunira tried taking deep breaths. She couldn't understand why Raman had to always be such a spoilsport. Her thoughts then turned to how fun it would be to rag him about this in the coming week. Soon enough Sunira broke into a smile. Her anger never lasted for too long. Especially not with Raman.

Now the preparations for the party were easy enough to make. Sunira had perfected the art of finding the right outfit for the right occasion. You had to be careful about such things. Too simple, and people would talk. Too fancy, and people would talk.

This time the group planned to hit this interesting pub near Lokhandawala called Thirteenth Sense. Sunira had heard such good things about the place! She hoped it didn't have any cheap crowd.

But if Sunira was perfectly honestly with herself, she would admit something the others wouldn't really believe. Secretly Sunira hoped that this place played some good Hindi music after midnight.

I mean, Ed Sheeran, Coldplay, Katy Perry, are all good, thought Sunira. But when all is said and done, who doesn't like some Kaho Na Pyaar Hai?

The others may not agree, thought Sunira. Except for Raman, he’d definitely get it.

----

Raman was buried deep in his textbook when someone thumped him on the back, none too gently.

Sighing, Raman turned towards his younger brother.

'What is it Keshu?'

Keshu smiled. 'Dada! You're still studying. Of course you are. Thanks for setting an example that I possibly can't live up to.'

Raman chuckled. 'Well what do you want?'

'Dada, I was supposed to bring the fish for tomorrow. But I was uhh...sort of caught up in other things...' Keshu spoke, trying and failing to sound innocent.

Raman glared at Keshu and spoke sharply. 'Well do you still have any of the money left for buying the fish?'

Keshu broke into a sweat. 'In a way, someone in this world does still have all of that money. Except at this very moment it's not with me Dada.'

Raman shut his book. With some effort his initial anger subsided. If he was too hard on Keshu, the rebellious younger brother just might shut him out. Sunira had explained this to him and he agreed with her.

In fact there were a lot of things on which Raman agreed with Sunira. She was the most honest person he'd ever met. And also to be honest, the most interesting.

Kindly, Raman spoke 'Listen Keshu, you have to stop doing this. See I'll soon find a job and I can help if you need any money. But you can't do this.'

Keshu dutifully listened and spoke quietly, 'Yes dada. Ok.'

And in a hopeful tone, Keshu went on to ask, 'So for now will you get the fish?'

Raman sighed.

'Obviously.'

----

In a tipsy and disoriented state, Sunira was back home. She somehow managed to not raise her parents' suspicions. Or she convinced herself that they were not suspicious.

Flashes of the evening played through her head. Thirteenth Sense was a happening place indeed. Great music (though no Kaho Na Pyaar Hai). Great food. Great booze.

But.

Sunira knew that there was a big 'but' in all of this. Somehow the whole experience was exactly like a number of other experiences. Fancy place, same people, same conversations.

No that wasn't fair. These were the people Sunira really cared about. Yet something had changed for Sunira ever since she began this MBA course.

For the first time she met people who were not, in the financial sense, rich. And it was awkward initially, but the class now had groups of friends with people from different backgrounds. Yet there was still that clear divide between the rich kids and the not so rich kids.

Like tonight, Sunira knew was mostly a rich kids event. And she knew that this was why Raman wasn't here. But the reason she still felt angry, was because she no longer thought of Raman as some guy from another background. She thought of him as a friend. And she didn't like to think that he thought of her as just some rich girl.

See when you spend so much time studying together. When you share your love for John Lenon, Harry Potter and Bappi Lahri, you expect a certain openness and honesty.

But clearly, there were still things they didn't share with each other.

----

On this early morning, the fish market had a slightly deserted air. Raman was unsure about what to buy. Bangda seemed a little costly, but Keshu didn't like prawns, so maybe Bombil?

Soon enough the choice was made (Paaplet, at a pretty good deal). As Raman walked out of the fish market, someone punched him in the stomach. Almost dropping his bags, a shocked Raman looked around.

'Ramu!' A voice teased. And Raman's expression changed from shock to surprise. There in front of him was Sunira, holding various grocery bags. In the distance was a lady who Raman knew to be (from all the pictures that Sunira insisted on sharing) Sunira's mother, smiling at both of them.

Sumira's mother spoke in her casual yet somehow formal manner.  'Sunira stop bullying him! Raman, how are you doing beta?'

Raman laughed. 'Oh I'm doing well aunty. So nice to see both of you here.'

Sumira's mother rolled her eyes and spoke in a rush. 'What to tell you now...My maid forgot all about the small get-together. So we had to come here early in the morning! Anyway Sunira give me those bags, I can go on from here. Though you don't take too long please! There's LOTS to do!!'

Sunira and Raman waved at Sunira's mother as she hurriedly made her way to the car. When the car was gone, Sunira again punched Raman.

'So good boy? How was your "doctor's appointment" ?'

Raman smiled embarrassedly. 'Sorry for lying. But I didn't really feel comfortable spending so much you know. Maybe after our placements...we could all go out.'

They walked through the market that was slowly waking up. But the dogs still felt it was quite all right to sleep right in the middle of the path. Tip toeing around them, Sunira looked at Raman and something inside her snapped.

She hadn't wanted to say this. But now as Sunira thought about it, she couldn't stop herself. Sunira tried keeping her voice a little calm, but she could hear the hurt in it.

'Well then next time just say that. Unless you don't want to be friends. Then just say that. I am sure we can find other friends.'

With a surprised expression, Raman looked away from Sunira. And then faced her.

'Hey, I am really sorry. And okay, next time I promise to be honest with you. '

In a rare moment of displaying physical affection, Raman held Sunira's hand. Usually Sunira was good with this sort of thing. Raman felt her holding onto him. It felt right. It had always felt right.

But.

And Raman knew there was this big 'but'. Sunira was definitely too cool for him. She deserved someone who would feel comfortable with things like Thirteenth Sense. Not the fish market.

Someday soon he'll have to say it and I don't know what I'll say, thought Sunira.

Someday soon she'll find someone else and I don't know what I'll do, thought Raman.

Yet here they were, walking hand in hand.

THE END

Mars Log

Enough. I have had absolutely enough. It's been 5 years since I have been posted on this barren planet.

When I signed up for a Mission to Mars, I thought there would be adventure, wonder and excitement. All I have is some stale brinjal, a cranky old cat for company and a vast range of mountains that are too big and too red. Though yes, Tambu isn't always cranky. ISRO did a good thing by making sure that astronauts have an animal companion. But if Tambu is my spirit animal, I feel worried about what kind of spirit I may have.

5 years can be a long time right? I don't know exactly when I got around to finally maintaining my personal journal. I think it was some time after the first six months, when I desperately wanted to see another human, hear his/ her voice, and maybe even shake hands or give a hug.

For someone who didn't like this sort of thing on Earth, this was a little worrying. See the counsellor has anyway mandated 1 hour of daily interaction via video calls. Sometimes it’s my parents, sometimes old friends and sometimes buddies from the ISRO base in Cochin. But over the years I can feel that their lives have moved ahead.

And I've been stuck in this unchanging terrain.

‘So how's the mission going?' they always ask.

I no longer know how to reply.

Nowhere. The mission is going nowhere. There is also no threat of running out of resources, being attacked by any aliens or any other wacky shit.

The only danger, and yes we had been briefed about it, is of losing our minds.

It's the sort of thing you laugh about when you're sitting with a group of your passionate astronaut buddies, all eager to shine bright. And we were given lots of training on not going crazy. Meditation, yoga, journal writing, that kind of stuff.

Initially I avoided keeping a personal journal because it seemed weird to me. I am not a writer really. My thoughts are either many and furious or none at all. And I don’t have any thoughts on how to deal with my current situation.

In a way it's a good thing that I didn't get married before coming here. My wife would have probably not managed to remain my wife.

Now they're also making me participate in this online dating thing with other female astronauts. When we're deemed to be compatible, she will be sent to Mars.

But honestly it's not going so well. No matter how casual they try to be, I can see it. They look at this as a prize.

Any romantic feelings are not the main deal here. And see, I have never really believed in love or Shah Rukh Khan. But I can't handle it when anyone tries to be fake nice.

I can sense that the base team wants me to say yes to some girl. Nikarnika, I think.

Hell they even made Tambu get on a video call with her. Well Tambu was not impressed.

I like how cool Tambu can be. She thinks I don't know, but when I am asleep she comes and snuggles up to me. I guess that's cute.

When I signed up for this, let me be clear, I knew what I was signing up for. But now I am no longer the person who had signed up for all this.

I don't know for sure what I want. A teaching job back home at the base station would be nice I think. Tambu of course would be coming back with me.

Most of the testing and research assignments are running smoothly. They could be controlled from Earth now. Though I don't know if they'll allow me to come back. My return request was filed last week and they pretend as if nothing has happened.

Even when we signed up we were told that we could return after 5 years. I think they were hoping that we wouldn't do this.

I keep saying ‘we’ but my mates are spread all across the solar system. Occasionally when the planets are at a suitable broadcasting frequency, we do get together for a call.

Boy, it's good. It's the only time when getting drunk feels good. But our conversations are starting to crack now. Everyone is struggling with their isolation.

Inaka's case was a shock. We didn't think he would take his own life. All those years ago during training he seemed the most in control. I mean this guy made every party a little more crazy, a little more memorable.

Maybe he needed the parties as much as the parties needed him.

Oh hell, I miss that bastard.

This idea of sending us on our own to different planets, I see how it might have been cost efficient. One mission goes wrong, we only end up losing one ship and one astronaut. But I hope the next missions have bigger teams. Teams that can be families.

Because being an astronaut, I thought it would be about exploring the space and beyond.

But mostly it has been about coming to terms with my own self.

THE END

The Odessa File: Review

Recently I read in the news about Frederick Forsyth having been an actual spy for the British. It made me a little curious and so I read this book.

The story based in 1963, revolves around Peter Miller a freelance reporter, who is on the hunt for Eduard Roschmann, one of the Nazis involved in the holocaust. At its essence this is a story about how some men who committed the most heinous crimes against humanity, managed to escape punishment. 

To put it simply, the ODESSA is a secret organization that gives protection to the surviving Nazis of the Second World War. Peter finds the diary of one of the survivors of a concentration camp. And for the first time he becomes aware of the sheer scale of atrocities inflicted on the Jews. This along with a certain very personal revelation sets him on the path of finding the Nazi SS captain Eduard Rochmann mentioned in the diary.

In one of the chapters, Peter approaches the owner of a magazine with a proposal to cover a story on Roschmann. And the editor puts it very bluntly to him that this was a story that no one in Germany would ever want to read. Because the Jewish tragedy was still a source of great shame and embarrassment for ordinary German citizens that survived the war.

This story has all the typical elements of a spy novel. International conflict, grand schemes of destruction, undercover agents, and a very nice pace. But the best thing about this book is that the historical and political references do not impede the story flow.

Overall this was quite an interesting read and I would definitely recommend it if you are in the mood for a spy thriller.