The great war of Lilliput

They stood around in a noisy, spirited huddle. The war was about to begin. Lightning and thunder rolled loudly above. Rain had started pattering down.

“This is the right time”, Tom said to Harry.

Harry nodded in agreement, “We must take our revenge. We should make him regret for our Dick’s blood.”

“He’s down”, Tom said looking at the huge figure of Gulliver lying a few meters away from where he was. “You charge!”

Harry moved close and sparred. Straight at Gulliver, hitting his forearm. Indeed Gulliver was down, he was caught off hand. Blood sprinkled ever so slightly from his strong forearms. Then Tom repeated the dose. Gulliver, in spite of his huge frame was helpless. His weapon hung from his fingers like a paralyzed limb, useless.

A host of their soldiers, waiting in the hiding, sprang into action, injuring Gulliver all over. The smell of victory was enough to gee them up, young as they were.

An old warrior, the senior most one, rebuked the spirited youngsters. “I’ve seen all these, boys”, he said, “Gulliver is dangerous. I feel we should plan the war on another day.”

The young blood hardly paid any attention. They kept on sparring at Gulliver.

The old warrior hid in a corner, face overcome with fear, looking at his young boys.

Suddenly Gulliver sprang into action. With a swipe he killed Tom, who crumbled in a heap on to the ground. Harry charged and got a similar swipe which invalidated him. In Gulliver's hands, the weapon swung like a rapier which swished through the air in expert arcs.

Gulliver pressed the weapon against Harry’s dark, incapacitated body. He was dead. A vein sputtered loudly, red blood flowed out and solidified. Without their leaders, their loyal army was vanquished in a trice.

The old warrior sat cowering in a corner, alone.

Gulliver said to his wife, “Ah, It was the battery. The bat is fine now with the new batteries. They are done with”. He blew a dead body from the mosquito bat, tossed it onto the table and crept into bed. His wife put an arm around him and snuggled close.

“Still they are not fully killed”, said she, listening intently. “I can hear a buzz”

“It’s alright, let’s sleep”, he said.

Gulliver and his wife slept peacefully that night. The old mosquito buzzed around, sadly, looking for a gap to launch at least a token attack. Sensing there was no hope, he escaped after a while, silently, through a crack in the window pane, vowing to come back again, to exact revenge for his beloveds' blood.

Together, alone.

I first met her in the deserted corridors of my school. We sat on the dusty steps leading up to the library and read a book which told a tale of a young man who fell in love with a fairy.

From far away, I could hear the squeaks of delight from children who played on the grounds, under the summer sun.

We met again - Under the giant oak tree near the deserted basketball court. At the corner seat of our library, behind the book shelf from where I could see the radio tower in a distance, majestic and alone.

I guess I was in love with her. One day, she broke my heart.

"I have many lovers", she squeezed my hand and said, "but call me any time, I'll be there for you."

I thought she was bluffing me, but she wasn't.

Like the quintessential genie, she materialized whenever I wanted her to.Those were lovely moments. I hated people when they butted in and spoiled our heaven.

Time went on.

One day I squeezed her hand, just like how she had done to me years back. It was payback time.

"I have some lovers now too", I said with a smirk. "Still I love you."

"I will excuse you", she teased. As she stood up, her hair brushed against my cheeks. "Don't forget me"

We didn't see for a while. In fact, I didn't think of her. I was too busy to do so.

Several friendships, love affairs and years later, one rainy evening, I thought of her. There was one near me other than a cup of steaming coffee.

She didn't fail me. Immediately, I felt her soft hands hug me from behind and her moist lips on my neck.

"How have you been, my darling?", she whispered, flirtatiously.

I pulled her around and looked into her eyes.

"The time without you", I said, "it wasn't worth it."

I kissed her on the lips.

Breathless, I looked into her eyes. She looked at me coolly, as if she had seen all this before.

"I love you", I said, "I love you, My dear Goddess of Solitude"

In reply, she just held me tight, silently.

I'd rather be here..

No,

I can't stand the stares,

At my attire,

At my mobile phone,

At my clumsiness with which I dig into a slice of jackfruit,

At the odd way in which I have draped my dhoti...

I can't stand it,

When your women giggle at me,

With the back of their palms pressed against their lips...

I can't stand it,

When your men cheat me off ten rupees,

And put that fake innocence on their faces,

And act concerned when they ask, scratching the back of their heads,

"Are you finding everything fine here, sir?"

I'd rather prefer,

to be here,

in my dusty, dirty, immoral city,

which, by night,

would pull me in,

seduce me,

under the cloak of

its pure, orgasmic anonymity.

Some random morning thoughts

I was in heaven, the cloudy smoke rings all around, sieving the sunlight through them. Ahead, an angel clad in white stood, holding a pristine white cloth. I sat back, watching the spectacle through my half clad eyes. The vision of heaven had never come to me this beautifully - the smoke rings, the bright light, the whiteness, the angels. It was phenomenal. But then, the phone rang in my shirt pocket.

The call was from Airtel and I had to pay my Broadband bills for the last two months. Three thousand bucks.

I remembered an adage: Money is the best vehicle from the world of dreams to the cruel, real one.

Then I rushed to survey my bright, cloudy, angel-inhabited heaven again. It was in ruins. My snuffed out cigarette lay under the chair; the girl on the next house's balcony had gone and her white bed sheet lay there fluttering in the breeze. The only definitive memory I have of the heaven was that it smelled of cigarette smoke.

**********************

On some days like today, when I don't cook my breakfast, the only hotel I turn to is a run down malayalee tea-shop near my house. And daily I order the same menu - 3 poori's with potato masala,a double omlette and tea. The omlette and tea are taken together, bite by sip, at the end.

The potato masala that they give with the tea is so drab and tasteless and it makes me wonder how I keep on having it each time.

It must be because I have a faint memory of having a tasty masala from this shop. It was perhaps the first or second time since I started eating from here. Maybe its the hope of a repetition. Its funny how far hope can take you.

**********************

Today, while I was eating, a lady sat in front of me, washing the plates. Daily she operates a grinder, staring ahead, with a curious impassive expression on her face . There is some undefinable air about her which depresses me.

But today she was sitting on the floor, plates piled up around her.

Suddenly one of the waiters moved around and knocked some plates down and it landed on her. She looked over her shoulder angrily and stared him down. An icy-cold stare. Cold fire.

But the waiter had moved across without noticing and was cracking jokes with someone outside. She was looking at thin air.

For a second, the mood was unique. She had no one to stare at. But she held the stare angrily for a couple of minutes. The culprit waiter guffawed outside at his own jokes, oblivious to what he had done.

Then she looked down and then went back to scrubbing the plates. Harder.

It was depressing. I felt I could feel her frustration brimming over and that it had more to it than just the knocked-down plates.

I didnt finish my tea.