Pray. Love. Eat. NOT.

(This post has been written for an Indiblogger contest. To know more, please visit http://www.mahindraxuv500.com/ )

In the December of the year 2011 I, dear readers, was a sombre soul. Life held no meaning. Each day was as empty as a Maharashtrian farmer’s stomach, and soon neither the rooster’s call nor All India Radio’s Evening News played out in my mind as separate entities. Reason you ask? Well, now that the exams had ended, I had envisioned a trip to distant lands for a bit of frolic and rejuvenation with some cronies worth their name. These cronies worth their name had however besmirched it by expending all their cash in one night of drunken revelry. The rest, they said, would be essential in securing a ticket back home.

Bloody Momma’s boys.

Anyway, as I smoked one Goldflake after the other while the X-ray-ed bust of John Terry beamed at me from the packet approvingly, I hit upon a link on google. Meditation courses. There was a time when I was roused from sleep kicking and screaming to meditate, which according to me murdered brutally the entire point of meditating, but Mater didn’t seem to give a damn. To rally around something that I had vowed never to do again was, to put it mildly, depressing.

And so it was decided. I would be renouncing all material possessions and earthly enticements for a period of 10 days in some village in Pune. Dhamma Vipassana Centre was very kind not to charge any money for this duration. I informed my folks at home of such an arrangement, lest the centre turn out to be a slaughterhouse dealing in human flesh. And on a cold Monday morning, I left for Dadar, a printout to be shown to the Centre to verify my credentials kept securely in my bag which held a few clothes as well.

Pray

I stared through the bus windshield at the heavy bandobast ahead, laid out by the Pune cops for Atal Bihari’s motorcade to pass through, and at the irked commuters getting aggravated by the second, before I tried to make sense of the figures on the print-out.

Nobody could be this stupid, I said. At least not when the intellect in question is mine. Yet the evidence now smirked at me, etched proudly in carbon black upon the A4 remnants of a hapless tree.

A flashback, dear readers? Yes, yes, I was coming to that.

So you see I was on the bus en route to Pune which I had embarked on in Dadar, feeling quite indifferent to the early morning hustle, a co-passenger who requested the window seat (I declined, respectfully of course) and the fact that I had left my I-card in the institute. However, as the bus gradually lurched and braked on the Mumbai-Pune highway, I awoke to the mesmerising beauty of the landscape that played like a reel across the window. Hillocks and knolls dotted with trees of several kinds were to be seen, and in a while I could see the Sinhagad College perched in a valley, baying for its share of existence.

Soon, the city came into view, and I pulled out the printout to look at the various buses and the bus depots I would have to visit. Skirting around several approaching rickshaw-drivers, I made my way for the bus depot and alighted one. The workforce of the city could be seen milling around pumped with vadapavs and chai. What is particularly impressionable about the city of Pune is that it looks like a miniature metro city- appearing like Mumbai only with smaller roads, smaller buildings, giving the impression of a cramped beehive with drones struggling to get breathing space. The heat bore down on me as I dismounted at the Swargate bus depot, immediately enquiring bystanders in bursts of Hindi and broken Marathi as to which bus took the mango Marathi manoos to Markal. It was starting to appear that my broken Marathi was too foul to be deciphered or there was no place named Markal in that region before a kind gent told me to go up to the Pune Corporation Building depot, which is where I would get a bus to my destination.

Sprawling in the limited space that the seats of the bus would provide, I wiped my now copiously sweating forehead and looked at the time. 1 pm. With any luck I would reach there by 2. I was famished, having had nothing to eat the entire day so far. I was immersed in some reverie about me cloaked in Buddhist robes when I noticed that we had been sitting at one traffic signal for the past 15 minutes. Further questioning revealed that the erstwhile Prime Minister of India (who I strongly believe to be a zombie) was to whiz past.

Why not make hay while the sun shines (atrociously, I might add), I said to myself, flipping the pages of the same printout to look for their number and ask for directions. It was while doing this that I locked upon the grievous mistake.

The readers would perhaps remember when I earlier mentioned that time had melted all boundaries between the morn and the eve, so that I lived like a jet lagged individual. Which had led to me coming a day too late. I had not even checked the day properly, simply assumed it to be so. Not the one to despair so quickly (as untruthful as that may sound), I tried all their numbers one by one, each coming out to be wrong ‘uns.

I felt cheated. I felt like battering a co-passenger delivering a discourse about the wrongful expenditures by the ruling elite of the taxpayer’s money. One trip, one outing I sought, to no avail. I thought about how I had always wanted to go to Goa, and in the three years of college life had managed it nil number of times. The first of the motorcade meanwhile appeared, and as the fleet of Ambassadors followed suit, I found myself thinking, why not?

Why not go to Goa alone?

A sudden adrenaline pulsed through my veins, and I flashed a triumphant smile to people nearby, who probably thought I was seeing a politician from afar behind tinted windows for the first time. Hoisting my bag, I launching myself heroically from the open bus door, bruised my knee, dusted off, gave a thumbs up to the concerned Puneris in the vicinity before I took off.

Love

Jahangir was in my thoughts as I lit a smoke and placed my hand on the chilled KF pint, being shielded from the afternoon sunlight by the beach shack I was currently seated in. The poor soul had obviously never been in Goa, or those famous words, “If there is a paradise on earth, it is here, it is here, it is here” would have been spoken here. I reminisced the morning when I changed two buses, coursing along the road in the rickety mode of conveyance that shook my already emaciated structure. I remembered the exhilaration as I caught sight of the beach from the windows of the bus, holding promises of unknown adventures, and the heady jubilation felt at having made it here alone.

I looked down upon the waves crashing on to the sands of Anjuna Beach even as an Israeli psychedelic track elevated my consciousness to the highest levels of tranquillity. The foreigners indeed outnumbered the Indians, with a greater proportion of the old and flabby than the young and virile. Even as I watched, a woman rose from the waves and coming up to a lounge chair, removed her top and reclined. The intimacy-starved engineer within me did a double flip, but even then it was asking too much of an introvert such as myself to go and engage in conversation. I kept myself content with watching her and ordering pint after pint of beer, before I decided to go back to my guesthouse to catch a few winks to replenish the energy levels which had been sapped out during the overnight general bogie train journey. I paid the bill and got up to leave.

“Psst!”

I turned to look at the addresser, a black, heavily built native with curly hair. I had seen him earlier behind the desk of the shack.

“Want some acid?”

“How much?”

“800 bucks a shot.”

I certainly was interested, and I exchanged the monies for a sugar cube apparently dunked in the stuff, never stopping to judge whether it was genuine. Then I turned to heed to the image of the inviting bed in the guesthouse.

***

I saw her coming out of the corner of my eye.

That a lone woman should be staying in this decrepit guesthouse was a surprise in itself. That she should display considerable affection for a wild cat perched on my lap was another. I was seated on an armchair in the corridor, a beer and a pack of cigarettes on the table beside, whiling away time after the end of a call from an old friend, who invited me over to Bangalore, which I accepted. She gave a squeak of delight, and in between interjections of ‘awwws’ and ‘oooohs’ hurried into her room, adjacent to mine, and came out with some biscuits. I lowered the feline creature on the floor, where it darted from my grasp for the crumbs.

“You sure do love cats. “ said the suave I.

She beamed a smile, and replied in affirmative. Judging from her accent, she seemed Russian. She brought out a beer and a pack of cigarettes as well and sat down on the chair beside.

We started talking, and boy, did we talk! Hours went by as we conversed about Indian and Russian households, people, writers, literary work, films and personal lives. She had been travelling in India for about a year now, earning through writing projects online. She was a couple of years elder to me. She spoke in broken English, albeit in a very quaint manner, occasionally giggling cherubically in an effort to conceal her inability to spout the proper English word in any phrase.

Presently, the sound of raucous, hyena-like laughter reached us, startling us both.

“Must be the Russians.” remarked she, casually

We laughed. I looked at her, and suddenly I felt an irresistible urge within me to pet her, to cuddle her, to take her with me. A thousand thoughts ran through my head.

“Do you wanna go someplace…uhh…quiet? My room is just across…umm…here.” I blurted out.

She gave me a weird look, before she started giggling again. I gave her an unconvinced smile.

“You are not sleepy, are you?” asked she.

“Oh, umm..no..not particularly.”

Silence hung in the air for a while.

“You?”

“Well, I-a..now that you mention it…”

“Oh, please don’t let me keep you up.”

We exchanged names and contact details. She shook my hand, before shutting her door with a smile. I looked at the dirty, grimy wood for a while, sighed, and retired for the night.

Eat

I looked at H as he threatened a junior, and then at the scared young one, and remarked inwardly at how much H had changed over the past 3 years.

H had become a typical dude of the sorts that inhabit the quintessential engineering college-brash, two-timing, threatening, egoistical sonuvabitch. It was not a matter of judging him; in fact I thought such qualities to be quite essential in surviving this shitty rat infested world, but the H I had bid farewell to after two rigorous years of intellectual training in Delhi had completely vanished.

I had been in this room, hiding, for the past day, from the landlords of this building which had been converted into a private hostel. I was caught loitering in the roof while H went to submit a lab manual on the evening of the same day that I had reached and sneaked into the hostel by a pair of Kannada ruffians, who demanded that I pay them the rent that was due for a few months. Not one to dissent this fortunate case of mistaken identities, I had assured them the payment would be made in 3 days. Since then H had been smuggling in third rate packed food from some shitty establishment that he claimed fulfilled all his nutrition requirements.

The junior left with a bundle of assignments he was to replicate and give back to H the same night. H conveyed that he was going to have to meet his girlfriend the next day to sort out matters that had led to them put their relationship status as ‘It’s complicated’ on Facebook. I sighed mentally. Here I was, a tourist, wanting to behold Bangalore in all its glory, being made to huddle inside a room for the second consecutive day.

It was soon time for the forty winks ritual. It was during this that I was reminded of the acid cube ensconced within my handkerchief inside my bag. Tomorrow, I decided, I was going on a trip of my own.

***

“Hah! You lose again!” exclaimed H as I neared astride my go-kart. His girlfriend stood nearby, still eyeing him with that look of brainless devotion.

“Hehe! Yeah! Totally felt like Johnny Depp in Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas!”

“Eh…what? Movie hai kya?”

“Aah, yes…see it if you have time.” I said, climbing out of my vehicle.

Dinner was decided upon, the completion of which led to us dropping his girlfriend back to her hostel. As soon as she was gone, he asked me what I thought of her. I would have told him that she was the most pathetic, dumb and childish creature I had ever set my eyes upon in life, but then realised that both of them were probably made for each other. I told him she was wonderful, using a few more such adjectives so that my appreciation seemed genuine. H seemed happy.

“Tell me something. You seem a bit off today. What’s the matter?” He asked, lighting a fag.

“Oh, nothing.”

“Abey bata naa.”

“Abey it’s nothing, I had one shot of acid, I did it this morning when you were out. I am still tripping a little.”

And indeed I was, a metallic taste still gnawing at the back of my throat. It had taken about an hour for the effects to show up, until which I had started believing that I had been duped of 800 bucks. It started with involuntary spasms of the joints. A while later the walls started to wobble, and everything around me started to convulse as if alive. Vivid hallucinations followed, and I saw designs, plots, schemes and colours everywhere. I had also started penning my thoughts on the order and hegemony of the world, but to include it in this post would mean effectively saying ‘fuck you’ to the readers, if any of them still remain to read this.

H had returned in the evening, sporting an apologetic countenance. In an effort to make up for his absence he sneaked me out for go-karting, as if I couldn’t have done something like that in Mumbai.

“What the fuck! You had acid!”

“Yeah man.”

“Why the fuck did you not tell me?”

“It was too little bey, one cube only. Too little for the both of us.”

“Dafuq man! I wanted to try it out too! Here I bring you out for go-karting, risking my skin in the hostel, and yo…and you call yourself a friend!”

We reached the room in silence, changed in silence, slept off in silence. I was getting the fuck out of there the next day, whatever it took.

NOT

Back in Mumbai, I flung my bag to a corner and threw myself on the bed, famished and fatigued.

Five days, three cities. Not bad, I thought. I had gone to pray but ended up encountering love (well, almost) and ate an acid cube.

So dear reader, (and I say reader because I am quite sure nobody nowadays reads a magnum opus of a blog post such as this these days, and if you do find yourself reading this you are a very gifted individual indeed) now that you have read this complete departure from your normal action packed, drama infused adventure stories, how do you feel? Murderous, I think, more than ready to throw the author of this post off Niagara Falls. Hell, that would be quite adventurous.

Five minutes must have elapsed when my phone rang. My hands foraged sleepily for the equipment on the bed.  It was Mater.

“Ki Korcheesh?”

“Nothing, just chillin’.”

“I made Khichudi and Payesh for dinner tonight. I remembered how much you like it. When are you coming here?”

“Tomorrow.”

Book Review: I Am Not 24

Description: I’m not 24.. is the story of Saumya, Malappa & Shubhro which should have been a love triangle but wasn’t. The three of them , coming from different worlds, are thrown into a fourth world called Karnataka. But it is not virgin beaches or exotic dancers that await them. They are to be welcomed by blood, riots, violet bosses and cut limbs. Will Saumya survive her job in the middle of nowhere? Will Malappa’s superiority help him survive or become the cause of his downfall? Will Shubhro prove that a heart of gold can survive through Marijuana smoke and Beer rich blood?

I think it prudent to mention beforehand that this review may seem like a biased opinion by someone who has an inherent dislike for the slew of romantic books by Indian authors written in a Chetan Bhagatesque style (he was better in retrospect). I almost didn’t read it beyond the first 5 pages where I, being presumed as the average non-assuming retarded reader, am explained that the narration will be by a girl and not the author. Not to mention the never ending grammatical mistakes, which I did ignore while reading it reminding myself about this commitment to Blogadda and will now while writing the review.

I am not 24 captures an IIM grad student’s journey into the professional world where due to a confusion (Saumya can be a boy as well) she gets assigned to a godforsaken village named Toranagallu in Karnataka. She meets workers, lechers, corpulent and envious bosses, establishes a rapport with the unlikeliest of people and falls in love with a Bong hippie (the only character I liked in the entire novel).

What strikes me particularly jarring in the entire novel is Saumya’s obsession with female underwear, cosmetics, shoes, and other apparel. The author clearly doesn’t know how a woman thinks like. I cannot myself claim to know that either, but the book presents an image which teenagers in a boys hostel make of a new girl in the college when they first see her. And it is surprising because Saumya is an IIM grad, and I would certainly expect them to have a plethora of other issues on their mind rather than what lingerie is up on the Debenhams’s window.

The book became a little easier to read after she started working in the company, as the story progressed towards the entrance of Malappa in the novel. He is shown to be quite a hunk, though his cheek eventually lands him in the soup, or the blast furnace as was the case here. The first real bit of corporeality in the character of Saumya becomes significant here, though I think it could have been more lucidly detailed.

The bong hippie Shubhro’s character has been well etched out, perhaps because his part in the book was ephemeral yet significant. Although the last part with all the blog posts justifying his existence killed all the mystery, some amount of which should have been maintained. Or maybe it’s just me. And Saumya describes Shubhro as her boyfriend in the beginning of the novel, which is a little strange when you think of it, as Shubhro had whisked off to Andaman and Nicobar not particularly throwing the love jargon around.

Do I think that this book will reach a wide audience? Certainly, with a price tag of 100 bucks available in a Wheeler depot of the railway station it is a catch for the quintessential Indian reader who wants a light read for the journey so that they could disembark on the other end and recommend the book to other people as an illustration of their extensive erudition.

Do I recommend it? No. I think you can add another hundred bucks and buy something else.

Oh, and I forgot to mention spoiler alert above. Apologies.

The Rapunzel of Qvendolia

“Once upon a time, in the far away land of Qvendolia…”

“Come on gimme a break! I ain’t three years old anymore.” said I, exasperated.

“Will you at least hear me out first?”

“OK…ok… go ahead.”

“Once upon a time, in the far away land of Qvendolia, there lived a King, as prosperous as any other in his time, bold and courageous and just. As was a Queen, as is oft the case, and the pallor of her cheek had been much described by lyrical bards to be akin to the primroses that bloomed on the upper reaches of Mount Blavska. For many years they ruled and were adored by each of their subjects. However, the Queen hadn’t yet begotten a child to the King, and this remained a matter of grim concern for the Kingdom and grief to both of them.

Besides the Palace stood an orchard and garden of heavenly beauty, owned by a witch named Kariova. The mere sight of her cackling while weaving her way through the woods and the vineyards, as the farmers returning from fields or the sentry during twilight would sometimes catch, was enough to send shivers snaking down their spine. Even though luscious apples blossomed up on the boughs, and the perfume of hibiscus filtered in the houses nearby unadultered, nobody considered himself or herself blighted enough to venture within the perimeters of her abode. As for the King, he really didn’t care. Live and Let Live And Drink Mead While You Are At It, such was his Motto.

The Queen, however, once did chance to see the most succulent rampions in the garden, and she bade the King to get it for her, who is turn bade the soldiers, who simpered and defecated in their armoured pants at the mere prospect. The King, oblivious and unheeding of the portents, scaled the wall, yanked some off the root, and brought it to the much content Queen, all the while smirking at his knights. The Queen was so overcome by the taste of those wonderfully delicious rampions that she bade him to do her bidding a second time.

And so the King went again, and yelped in alarm at the hideous face that now leered at him. She could give Medusa a run for her money, thought the King to himself.

‘Scum of the earth! You dare steal the fruits of this garden fit for the Gods?’

‘Well, technically, my kingdom, my earth, if you get the drift…’

‘Silent you spluttering son of a snail! I give not the Slaigh Des Phaag to who you are! I shall toast you with the glance of my evil eye!’ And even as she said so, her forehead started to contort, an eyelid gradually materialising.

The King stood transfixed, horror struck, but then raised a hand as if to reason.

‘Wait O you Seer of the foulest ghouls, O you grotesque excuse for a woman! I shall pay you richly provided you let me go!’

Kariova weighed this. ‘I have no interest in those huge gold ingots that you possess. I merely wish to cradle a child within my bosom…’

‘Aah, is that so? Well I can’t say that you really enchant me, you Warthog Dressed in Human Skin, but should you amble by the tavern I have heard stories of drunk revellers mistaking livestock for their wives, if you know what I mean..’

‘Silence Imbecile! I shall allow you to take away the rampions on the condition that you deliver to me the first child that is born to you.’

‘Hah! I am impot..ahem ahem…alright, it shall be done.’

Now it so transpired that the rampions possessed some magical qualities, and therefore when the Queen brimming with joy puked royal vomit with her attendees gushing nearby, the King recoiled in horror, recalling the vow the wily witch had made him take. Imagine the Queen’s sorrow a few months later when Kariova came along, while the entire kingdom wept, to claim the beautiful baby girl, and as she exited with the baby in her arms the Queen collapsed on her throne.

Kariova travelled with the girl to the outskirts of the city, to the forest surrounding Mount Blavska, known as Merinske. It was here in this fearful forest that it was rumoured that she had a plot of land which she had purchased during the real estate boom a few years ago, and in that land she had a stone tower, made many years ago by none other than the Horrible Hag Helga. She had, for some strange reason, built the staircase outside the tower, which culminated in an open window.

It was in this tower that Kariova raised the little girl, whom she named Rapunzel. When Rapunzel was big enough to eat, walk and sleep without shouting ‘Momma!’ everytime lightning struck the weathercock of the tower, Kariova stopped staying there and went back to her home to care for her vegetables. However, she would visit Rapunzel every day, bringing with her rations and wine. One fine day, the staircase, out of sheer age, crumbled and broke down…”

“And then she said Rapunzel Rapunzel let down your hair and Rapunzel let down her hair and she climbed up and fed her and then some prince came along attracted by her song and one day the witch discovered this and sent some blasted creature who he killed and then strangled the witch blah blah blah…I know this already!” said I, drowsy from the drone that had been issuing nonstop from this old gent for the past few minutes. “Can we skip to the end and get to the point, please?”

“Aahha! Patience is of the essence my boy, it surely is!” said he, looking down at me with his thoughtful eyes. “Alright, for you I shall cut this story short, a pity, but nevertheless, let us come to the part where the witch discovers the Prince, Igor being his name, canoodling Rapunzel. Kariova, seething with rage rushed to smite Igor, who rappelled down the tower, shouting ‘I shall come back for you Rapunzel!’ before making contact with the ground. Kariova muttered a few spells which conjured up a terrible creature, with a bat’s wings, an aardvark’s body and a human arse for a mouth, which Kariova called Badass.”

“Hahahahaha!”

“Can you not interrupt me again?”

“Sorry.” Said I, looking at him attentively.

“No sooner had the Prince ridden a few yards into the forest when this creature was upon him, flinging him away from his stead atop the palomino. The Prince stood up and faced this loathsome creature, for he was brave, and unsheathing his sword, advanced. When he was just a hand away, the mouth of the creature unfastened and Igor was drowned in the most putrid gale he had ever come across, and such was its power that he found himself being dragged and his clothes being blown away. When the mouth finally closed, the Prince was left wearing only his bare essentials.

Not the one to give up easily, he advanced again, swinging his sword like a man possessed when Badass stood on its hind legs, and started to tweak two spots on its chest. Unbelievably enough, Igor found himself staring with incredulity at two eyes, and as soon as he had done this he felt a molten hot sensation searing his insides. He keeled over, the last remnants of his breath being drawn in a struggle, and then lay still, unmistakeably dead. Kariova then cut off Rapunzel’s hair, leapt off and survived with a broken leg and a dislocated shoulder, and never returned. Rapunzel ultimately starved to death.”

“Whoa…whoa…this is not what I heard. Are you sure about this?”

“Positive. However, all this is about to change. By the way, I trust you haven’t got a clue how Prince Igor used to appear like.”

“’Course not.”

“Have a look.” He said holding out what looked like a portrait.

I took one glance at it and grew pale. My hands trembled, I had to drop the portrait on the floor. I looked up at the old man, who claimed to be my Mentor, and yet would not give his name. He surveyed me with a feeling of sadness and understanding.

“Yes, it is indeed you. You were killed most mercilessly, and now is your time to avenge your murdered love.”

“But how shall I get past this evil beast, when in the past I have failed to do so?”

“Fret not dear Prince, for I have a solution. You shall have to procure and wear a Valentino White and Rose shirt, an Armani Dark Denim Jeans, Dolce Gabbana  Black Belt, a Tommy Hilfiger Sack Coat, and a Hamlet Vintage Grey Derby Shoe, for these are the toughest attires known in the world and would enable you to travel the cold dark forest of Merinske snugly before you reach the tower.”

“But how in the name of God will I protect myself from the gust of stench with which Badass incapacitates its opponents?”

“For that you shall have to purchase an Armani Jeans Windbreaker. Nothing will get past this devil of a cloth.”

“And what about its fatal gaze? Surely that is something which cannot be overcome?”

“Its eyes give off light of a certain wavelength that can cause instant death in a human. However, Hugo Boss Black/Brown Shades blocks these wavelengths and facilitates clear vision. You won’t have a thing to fear.”

“But these are too many! I don’t have the slightest idea how to get all of these at once!”

“Don’t worry, here is a list of what to do and what to obtain.” He handed over a chit. I saw a link, and went through the items again, among which a LIV Jeans Dress Multicolour and a Hugo Boss White Strap Sandal also featured. No doubt, to present to Rapunzel once I reached there. I folded it and kept it in my pocket.

“This happened quite a while ago I suppose?”

“Yes, nearly 2000 years ago. You, O brave Prince, shall reach there by a time machine, which you will find besides your pillow when you wake up in the morning. Extend the crown outwards and rotate it anticlockwise around five and a quarter times to transport yourself back in time. But you should refrain from using it until you have all that you need for this quest.”

“Excellent! All I lack now is a sword.”

“Why do you need a sword? Just kick its groin.”

“Aah, yes, of course.”

“Farewell Prince! May God be with you!”

I woke up, ensconced within my bed sheets, my heart thudding vigorously. I saw a gift wrapped package besides my pillow. The sunlight streamed in through the window to reveal a Tommy Hilfiger watch. Although my parents later insisted it was a birthday present, I knew better.

So here is my unbelievably sad, albeit true story. Somewhere my beloved Rapunzel mourns my absence, while being tormented by starvation. Every minute to her is a like an epoch, every tread by an animal on the forest floor a false alarm of my coming.

My sweet, poor Rapunzel.

Therefore I urge you to support me, dear readers, by clicking on this link, and making one of your own inventory lists to blog about it, so that I know I haven’t missed anything important I may require. I will need all the help you folks can give. Got a Princess to rescue, you see.

Evolution Chuck Testa Meme

I know I am a decade late, but here it is. A tribute to this great man just had to be given.

In response to this video.

The Legend of a Lunatic~Part 2

I swivelled. It was Jane. She looked quite flustered, which somehow belied the aura of suavity exhibited by the crisp business suit she was clad in.

“Yes, of course.”

Eddie helped Roobie in hauling the chest; they hadn’t allowed me to procure help for that either. The applause hit us with the force of a brick. And we weren’t even near the stage. The numbers had to be phenomenal today.

If the pandemonium wasn’t strident enough, it rose to a cacophonic uproar as the Lysergic Lunatics trotted onto the stage with the dry ice machine pumping in a generous amount and the eruptions going off in the freezing indigo air. From my position beside the stage, I could just make out the tiniest hints of a face bawling as if there was no tomorrow, lost in that din  emanating from  that vast deluge of limbs and bodies. The atmosphere held the semblance of charged ions cackling with bristling energy. Bernie had taken his place behind the drums, Eddie was tapping on the bass, Roobie and Matt slung their respective guitars around their shoulders while Pete took centre stage. The fly cam captured Pete’s heavily bloodshot eyes, splattering the image all over the huge projection screen in the distance.

“Mad crowd, this.” spoke a female through the earphones.

Pete’s prologue faded into nothingness as Jane materialised beside me. Her lips were held slightly crooked in amusement and to some extent, relief. This was the culmination of a very hectic ordeal for her. I looked at her strong cheeks, now giving off a lilac glow as lights went on. She looked stunning.

“Yeah.” said I, looking once more into the distance.

The raucous cheer of the crowd seemed to usher on the first riffs from the bass guitar as Eddie cavorted around the stage with his instrument. The soft, three-beat rhythm segregating the first strum of the delayed A minor lulled the audience into a soporific state of consciousness. Roobie struggled to keep his head afloat, his nimble fingers the only evidence that he was alive.

“The ones up in the front appear like they are rocking in a cradle.” I said.

“The ones in the front section look quite…I dunno…”

“Stoned?”

She nodded with an accompanying flash of a cherubic smile, though something told me that she wouldn’t be surprised if I told her that the entire stadium probably was. Her eyelids drooped slowly in a languid manner, head tipping lightly from side to side as the song progressed.

“…behold through phoenix eyes, the flame of resurrection…”

Lights and lasers cut through the heavy smoke that cocooned the band members, lost now in the torrent of the surreal melody that poured forth from the speakers. Only music remained as the mode of conveyance between them now. Numerous cellphones with the backlight switched on and an equal number of lighters made way to the surface, resembling millions of fireflies swarming over the sea of heads, which by some miraculous fluke of nature, comprehended the music and danced along.

“…swirling the vapours recede, one loaf of bread and mead…”

“How many times have you listened to this one?”

“Lost count.” I said. “It still holds a goose bump potential.”

“God.” She shuddered. “I don’t think I could have taken that. I would expect the first few times to be pleasant enough, but for 6 years in a row…” she raised her eyebrows and brought them down again as my gaze pierced her.

“I expect you like some other genre more?”

“Yeah, country blues, folk, stuff like that, while peacefully sprawled out on a recliner. Though I hardly get to listen much, there has been a boom in the number of local bands trying to ape what your band attempts. Insane number of gigs happening all over the country. My company now makes three times more than what it used to a year a-”

“…lynching and stabbing the maiden of dusk…”

“Hold on, this is where it gets really trippy. Watch out for the trance beats.” I said, focusing my unadulterated attention now towards Pete.

Eddie began, the notes pulsating in and out, like a cardiac patient’s heard beat careening out of control. The rest followed suit, creating an eerie, omnipresent sound, one that never felt to take my breath away. Jane seemed to be taken aback, as if pleasantly surprised by the abrupt change that was wrought in the ambiance. Exchanging a secretive smile, she went back to looking at the crowd, presumably at a heavily bearded bloke in the nearest row raising his arms heavenwards, his eyes closed, and gaping mouth open. Looking back, I saw Roobie appearing quite animated, pulling his guitar off and ambling towards the chest. Finally.

He bent down to open it, and through the smoke and dazzling demonstration of lights, for a moment, all I could make out was his ass with a plumage of feathers. He straightened, and he carried something of which I really wasn’t sure he possibly could.

He came with it close to the brink of the stage. He pointed it at the bearded man, eyes still closed, arms open wide in a prophetic gesture of benevolence.

The next moment I saw his eye cave in, liquid erupt, and a slight grimace contort his face before he went down.

I stood rooted to my spot as each decibel shattering bullet went on a murdering spree, camouflaged under the music and those brilliant lights. I failed to make out Roobie’s face. A heart-rending shriek pierced my ear through the headphones, but my mind was in such a tizzy that I couldn’t even muster the will to find her face and share the panic. People kept piling up, none of their faces evident, none of the last gasps of existence being brutally snatched away discernible. I saw Pete bent over the chest now, emerging with several objects which he now lobbed into the crowd. A deafening explosion, one which was perceptible over everything, rocked the concert, and people and burnt flesh and broken bones lay everywhere. A second explosion hurled people into the air, and a putrid stench of singed flesh entered my nostrils. I keeled over as my stomach roiled, the diaphragm begging to spasm and make me retch, the fear-stricken, taut muscles, however, refusing to abide. There was a third boom, and a flash of black hurried past me.

“Jane! No! Wait!”

She ran wildly towards Matt, who saw her approaching with a very astonished look on his face.  I saw him gesture towards Pete, who was about to lob a fourth. Roobie gestured everyone to huddle together.

“Nooooo!”

Pete removed the nail let it drop.

An aggravating whirr ringing in the ears. Desolation. And excruciating pain. I could feel the air rushing by. Lights floated around in a flurry. A sudden thud. Then hideous, long, unbearable silence. Everything was pitch black. I allowed my breath to even out.

*                                                          *                                                                              *

“Enough already Sanchez! You want to go home a dead man?”

“Come on, man. One more. On the rocks. Absolutely the last.”

“I will be damned if it isn’t.”

The bartender stomping off was Roy’s cue. “So, now you are clear?”

“Hell, yeah. Pretty broke though, the lawyers humped me dry right after they brought me out of the ICU. But they did get me out of that fix. I could be serving life without committing any transgression.”

“And what of the other mystery?”

“What of it?”

“The police said they could only ever find four of the band members. In bits. But they did find ‘em.”

“Yeah and him possessing supernatural powers and shit. I heard that.”

“Do you think he is still out somewhere?” I could make out his voice going edgy.

“I wouldn’t be surprised if he is holed up somewhere, trying to give a discourse on his screwed up philosophy to those who don’t give a fuck about it.”

“Ok that’s it Sanchez, nothing of what you asked remained, other gents took a special liking to it. Kindly fuck off now.” The bartender had returned.

I stared deep into my empty glass. I suddenly felt a bitter aftertaste at the back of my throat.

“Aaah, Ruben, you motherfucking bastard…”