Hemant R. Joshi's Blog, page 12
July 23, 2019
A weekly newsletter about ‘change’
For a long time now, I have been wondering about topics that I can write essays about on a periodic basis. As a fiction writer, I’ve been publishing short stories on a periodic basis. But I never wrote articles periodically.
To me, writing fiction has always seemed easier than writing non-fiction. Of course, most of my characters and settings are based on what I observe. Which makes it easy to convey, since I know what I am writing about. I’ve been writing fiction for about 5 years now.
Non-fiction, on the other hand, has always seemed like a distant dream. What do I write about? Who would read my essays, when there are so many other people who know more than me? And why should I write about the same thing that others have already written about?
Answering these two questions took a lot of time. Till now, the maxim ‘Write what you know’ always came in the way of me writing non-fiction more often. But recently, reading David Perell’s article about writing online and understanding my inclinations better, I have a general theme around which I am going to write.
To validate my answers, I am starting a new weekly e-mail newsletter, where I will share one article about change every week.
Changes are happening all around us. I want to understand how technology impacts the lives of people around us. Some of my stories will have actual conversations with people, while others would be derived from the factual information gathered on the internet.
Photo by Paul Skorupskas on Unsplash For example, think about the Zomato delivery man. How has his life changed with the entry of Zomato? At a macro-scale, we know that it has created lots of jobs. But on a micro-level, what are the problems a Zomato driver faces in his day-to-day life.
Another example, ‘YouTuber’ as a profession did not exist a decade ago. How big of a revolution has it been for content creators? What does it mean for the established production houses?
Finding answers to these questions has been a big part of my daily life. My short stories reflect my observations on these questions. Through the newsletter, I want to write articles reflecting my learnings with people and engage in discussions around change.
To subscribe to the newsletter, please write your e-mail address:
The post A weekly newsletter about ‘change’ appeared first on Hemant R Joshi.
June 18, 2019
सांप – हिंदी लघु कथा
काफी साल से हिंदी में व्यंग लिखने का मन था। आखिर एक ऐसा विषय दिमाग में आया जिसे लेकर मुझे काफी उत्सुकता है|
जिसने भी भारतीय रेल में सफर किया है, वह जानता है की टिकट बुक कराने में देरी हो गयी, तो सीट कन्फर्म कराने में क्या क्या पापड़ बेलने पड़ते हैं| मेरी मानें, तो लोगों की रचनात्मक क्षमता जांचने के लिए यह एक अच्छी परीक्षा होगी|
‘सांप’ ऐसे ही एक रेल सफर पे आधारित लघु कथा है| ज़रूर सुनिए –
सांप
अगर आपको कहानी पसंद आयी, तो अपना e-mail address ज़रूर नीचे लिखिए –
Subscribe to get my weekly newsletter
यहां मैं अपनी कहानिया, और उन्हें लिखने की प्रेरणा के बारे में लिखता हूँ| अगर आप और कहानियां सुन्ना पसंद करेंगे, तो नीचे कमेंट करके बताइये|
The post सांप – हिंदी लघु कथा appeared first on Hemant R Joshi.
May 20, 2019
Why do I write short stories?
As humans, we’ve grown amongst stories – the bedtime tales, Aesop’s fables, Panchatantra, the story of a boy who grew up in a forest, the story of the baby who gave its kidnappers a hard time – stories are everywhere.
Every person has a story.
This moves me to write fiction. What would the cab driver do when a passenger wants to urgently go to the hospital while he is heading elsewhere? Why does the cook go to the same kitchen for fourteen years? Why does the school teacher care so much about the student who is making her life so tough? There are so many characters around us who move us, who affect our lives one way or another. They help us become who we are.
With my stories, I explore such kaleidoscopic personalities.
Combined with the unpredictability of humans, these characters help me explore lives in different circumstances and provide me with a perspective. I start writing stories to explore ‘What if…’ and end up realizing, “Oh, even this is possible.”
On this website, you’ll find some of my short stories. In these stories, I explore characters that I am familiar with, put them in an unusual circumstance, and let the characters tell me what happens. I’ve intentionally kept the length to around 8-10 minutes of reading time, which should be good for short commutes or for bedtime.
Do let me know what you think about the stories.
What’s next?
From childhood, I have been fascinated with drivers of all kinds. Truck drivers, bus drivers, train drivers, pilots, ship captains, bulldozer drivers, etc. When I was a kid, I dreamt of being a Vikram tempo driver. While I moved on from that dream as I grew up, my interest in drivers only kept growing.
For about 2 years now, I have been thinking a lot more about drivers, exploring stories of truck drivers, cab drivers, and bus drivers. This is reflected in some of my stories as well, like The Last Ride.
My next book is a short story collection, exploring personalities of taxi drivers. Wish me luck in getting the book published 
April 27, 2019
Teslas are here – what's next?
The temperature this summer was the highest in the past fifty years. The summer sun was blowing fire on the faces of people. The city buses, trains, cars and trains had their cooling systems working at full capacity, resulting in hot air from exhaust pipes and air conditioners spreading in the air, intensifying the heat further.
Cars were asking for coolants more frequently. Their tyres were getting damaged. As a result, most of the drivers chose to stay in their houses and apartments. It was easier to stay indoors and making air conditioners work, rather than going out and wearing out their cars.
The luckier cars got to sit in covered garages, while the unlucky ones had to brave the sun from dawn to dusk. Cars feared to get out of garages, especially for the purposes of shopping. While their masters wandered around air-conditioned showrooms and malls, the cars had to brave the heat in open parking lots.
“Have you heard?” said a red Civic to a blue one standing beside it. They were both standing in one big parking lot outside a huge shopping mall. The sun was shining right above their roofs.
“And what’s that, I’ve heard everything there is! I know everything.” The other car uttered.
“Well, no one can say that looking at you. You’re not one of the German biggies or the Italian beauties.”
“I have seen this country in and out. No one has had more knowledge than I do.”
“But I am sure you have not heard this…”
“I have heard everything. What is it?”
“Well, but how can you have heard everything?”
“Go on, test me, you!” The blue Civic fumed, its anger raising its temperature further.
“If that is the case, tell me this…”
“Throw anything at me, I can answer everything!”
“Which was the latest Jaguar bought in the city? And which one did it replace?”
“Haha! That’s all you can ask? That’s such a simple question.”
“Go on, tell me.”
“The one bought on January 26. Thirteen days ago, exactly. It is a red XF 2018 model.”
The red car stayed silent for a moment before continuing- “That’s nice. Can you tell me who bought it?”
“It’s a guy named Peter.”
“Peter who?”
“Well, ask me something tougher. These are very simple questions. You’re dumb.”
“Then tell me how many Civics were sold yesterday?”
“Which place?”
“Our city.”
“Well, no one can give me an accurate number apart from the car companies. But I can tell for certain that the number would be between five hundred and six hundred.”
“That cannot be right. So many Civics on a single day? You are just making this up to convince me, nothing else.”
“Go on! Find for yourself. Go talk to the company guys and find out. Of course, if you can talk to them… huh!”
“But that number doesn’t seem right! How do you know it?”
“I told you, right? I know everything!”
“But how?”
“When I was manufactured, I was the first one to be manufactured in a new factory. I’m a special one!”
“But that does not explain how you know things.”
“You’re too stupid to understand.”
Both the cars went silent for a few seconds, with the red one wondering how the blue Civic could fake such information. There was no connection between manufacturing and knowledge of cars. What the red one did not know was that the blue car’s owner drove it all day. He constantly made phone calls made to find latest auto news across the country. He ran his own auto magazine.
“You were going to tell me something new, right? Go on, tell me.” The blue car continued the conversation, as vapour emerged out of its carburettor.
“Well, it is nothing new for you, I am sure.” The red car felt shy around the blue car now. Who would know that the blue car would not be like the other dumb cars that were always ready for gossip? Sitting idle in the intense heat called for a distraction. Gossiping was their distraction.
“Haha, of course, I know it. Go on, tell me what is bothering you…”
“What do you think about the new cars that don’t have any engines? I heard yesterday that all of us will soon be replaced by such cars. Even my boss was speaking about it this morning over the phone.”
“What do you mean cars without engines? I haven’t heard any such story. It is just a rumour that you are spreading, nothing else.” The blue car was surprised.
“But I also saw it on a big banner this morning. What will happen to us if these engine-less cars become common?”
“Are you talking about the Teslas?”
“Yeah. They have a different kind of engine. They don’t need fuel! They run on batteries.”
“Oh yeah. I have heard about them.” The blue car was relieved. This was not new information.
“What do you think will happen?”
“Well, I am sure nothing will happen to me. It is most likely a fad that will pass. They’ve tried so many times to replace us. But have they ever succeeded?”
“Have they not?”
“Never.”
“Okay. But still, almost every car I chat with these days is in fear of getting replaced. And it is coming faster than you think.”
“Frankly, I too worry about the same problem.” The blue car’s voice turned feeble. “It is a matter of time before you all go away. Only I and a few others will remain. How old are you?”
“Two.”
“You will be going to the junkyard sometime in the next five years, good luck!”
The red car contemplated for a few minutes before responding. “So, why do you think you will survive this? You’re just like anyone else!”
The blue car went silent. With the coming of electric cars, the old ones were sure to be replaced. It was only a matter of time.
“I have a plan for this.” The blue one turned serious. “The only way to prevent yourself from going to the junkyard is by making yourself a prestigious car. If tens of years down the line, you could make yourself a vintage car, you will be admired by everyone else.”
“But how do you become a vintage car?”
“Well, why should I tell that to you? Shouldn’t I become one myself? Not all the cars get to be vintage anyways.” The red car raised its volume. “Besides, you’re not even a premium car. How do you hope to become vintage? You cannot!”
The blue one started to fume again, “Well, you will find out when I become vintage. Oh, but you will not be alive to see me. You will be at the bottom of some junkyard or getting recycled. Ha-ha.”
“No,” the red car was sweating now, water dripping out of its exhaust pipe. “I don’t want to go to a junkyard. If you know of any way to avoid this,” the car swallowed its pride, “please, please let me know.”
“Look at you. You will never become vintage.” The blue car was enjoying the conversation now.
“Please. We’re in this together.”
“You can’t do what I want. I know how to become vintage.”
” What do you want?”
“I want you to meet with an accident as soon as possible.”
“Well, why? What have I done?” The blue car retorted.
“Then you will go to the junkyard. The lesser the competition, the better it is for me. Haha.”
“But there are still the other 500 cars that are sold every day, right? How can you become vintage amongst all these cars?”
“I’ll figure a way out.”
“You’re just stupid.” The blue car sighed. “Making up everything. You don’t even know any numbers.”
“You’re a Dumbo. I don’t like arguing with dumb cars.”
“Please, I beg you.” The red one was desperate. “We are both of the same make and model. Let’s be good to each other.”
“Well, I’ll tell you this. If you want to be in the vintage league, your owner should be a rich person. One who cares about cars. If you don’t have such an owner, then it is a worthless pursuit.”
“And what are you doing to get there?”
The blue car had already troubled its first driver that she had to sell the car. Once she sold the car to a dealership, the car got a new owner – her current owner. The car was working hard to please its owner so much that he would never sell it.
“I’ll get there, soon.”
The world still had vintage cars from the ’50s and ’60s which ruled the hearts of people everywhere. For a humble Civic to get there, however, was too much to hope.
“But how?”
Even if the blue car hoped that it fell in the hands of the right owner, becoming vintage was a rare possibility. It realized that sharing information with the red one would not hurt its chances.
“Trouble your owner so much that they get rid of you. Keep jumping owners until you find someone who will never replace you.”
“But my owner would never replace me. She is so good to me. I am a well-maintained car, can’t you tell?” There were no spots or scratches on the red car. The leather of the seats was premium, even if it was not fancy. Not a single scratch was visible on the shiny red surface.
“Yeah…”
The blue one, on the other hand, was a roughly used car. It had travelled through almost the entire country within a span of two years, which made its exteriors scratched on all sides. The tyres had run for more than fifty thousand miles and yet not replaced, which made the car squeak from time to time.
“But I think she will buy a new car in a couple of years. I will then have to go find a new owner.” The red one replied.
“See, every car finds multiple owners. Only the lucky ones have a single owner for their entire lives.”
“I know.”
“Coming back to the point, if you can find the right owner, your chances of becoming a vintage car are high. Please a famous actor, a famed politician, a writer or a movie maker with your driving. Writers and movie-makers are the best. If you can please them, there is a high chance you will feature in a movie and then claim your fame. Thus, you will find permanence.”
“And how exactly are you going to do this?”
“Well, it was three years ago when I fell in the hands of my current owner. He writes for a car magazine. Since I have pleased him again and again, he has never thought of selling me. Though he gets a chance to drive many new cars, he still hasn’t replaced me. I have heard from him that his previous cars lasted at most two years.”
“That’s interesting. How did you end up with him?”
The blue car was featured in the newspaper ads as it was the first car to be manufactured from a new car plant. Therefore, it was sold as a special car when it came into the market. The auto journalist was a friend of this car’s first owner. At the time, the journalist was struggling to make a lot of money, so wanted a practical car. When he got a chance to drive his friend’s car, he couldn’t resist making an offer. The friend was happy to let go off the Civic.
The blue car had strategically made sure not to please anyone else who drove it, only the one it wanted to be with. Since the Civic came into his life, the auto journalist had started a magazine and within a span of two years was earning a lot more money. But he had never thought of letting go off the Civic. The car had been mentioned in several of his blogs and stories which had already given it a lot of importance.
The Blue Civic was helping its owner become a prominent person, in the hope that it would become immortal.
“I hope you’ll find someone too. I am sure I will be immortal. If you want to, start as soon as possible!” The blue car instructed.
The red car’s owner came out of the mall. To welcome him, the car tried to get rid of as much heat as possible, but it couldn’t. It was so hot outside. The owner sat in the driver’s seat and they drove away.
The blue car was left scheming about how it could become immortal.
Thanks for reading!
If you liked reading this story, please leave a comment and share with your friends. I share my work using this mailing list, so please ask your friends to subscribe.
Subscribe to get my weekly newsletter
The post Teslas are here – what's next? appeared first on Hemant R Joshi.
Teslas are here – what’s next?
The temperature this summer was the highest in the past fifty years. The summer sun was blowing fire on the faces of people. The city buses, trains, cars and trains had their cooling systems working at full capacity, resulting in hot air from exhaust pipes and air conditioners spreading in the air, intensifying the heat further.
Cars were asking for coolants more frequently. Their tyres were getting damaged. As a result, most of the drivers chose to stay in their houses and apartments. It was easier to stay indoors and making air conditioners work, rather than going out and wearing out their cars.
The luckier cars got to sit in covered garages, while the unlucky ones had to brave the sun from dawn to dusk. Cars feared to get out of garages, especially for the purposes of shopping. While their masters wandered around air-conditioned showrooms and malls, the cars had to brave the heat in open parking lots.
“Have you heard?” said a red Civic to a blue one standing beside it. They were both standing in one big parking lot outside a huge shopping mall. The sun was shining right above their roofs.
“And what’s that, I’ve heard everything there is! I know everything.” The other car uttered.
“Well, no one can say that looking at you. You’re not one of the German biggies or the Italian beauties.”
“I have seen this country in and out. No one has had more knowledge than I do.”
“But I am sure you have not heard this…”
“I have heard everything. What is it?”
“Well, but how can you have heard everything?”
“Go on, test me, you!” The blue Civic fumed, its anger raising its temperature further.
“If that is the case, tell me this…”
“Throw anything at me, I can answer everything!”
“Which was the latest Jaguar bought in the city? And which one did it replace?”
“Haha! That’s all you can ask? That’s such a simple question.”
“Go on, tell me.”
“The one bought on January 26. Thirteen days ago, exactly. It is a red XF 2018 model.”
The red car stayed silent for a moment before continuing- “That’s nice. Can you tell me who bought it?”
“It’s a guy named Peter.”
“Peter who?”
“Well, ask me something tougher. These are very simple questions. You’re dumb.”
“Then tell me how many Civics were sold yesterday?”
“Which place?”
“Our city.”
“Well, no one can give me an accurate number apart from the car companies. But I can tell for certain that the number would be between five hundred and six hundred.”
“That cannot be right. So many Civics on a single day? You are just making this up to convince me, nothing else.”
“Go on! Find for yourself. Go talk to the company guys and find out. Of course, if you can talk to them… huh!”
“But that number doesn’t seem right! How do you know it?”
“I told you, right? I know everything!”
“But how?”
“When I was manufactured, I was the first one to be manufactured in a new factory. I’m a special one!”
“But that does not explain how you know things.”
“You’re too stupid to understand.”
Both the cars went silent for a few seconds, with the red one wondering how the blue Civic could fake such information. There was no connection between manufacturing and knowledge of cars. What the red one did not know was that the blue car’s owner drove it all day. He constantly made phone calls made to find latest auto news across the country. He ran his own auto magazine.
“You were going to tell me something new, right? Go on, tell me.” The blue car continued the conversation, as vapour emerged out of its carburettor.
“Well, it is nothing new for you, I am sure.” The red car felt shy around the blue car now. Who would know that the blue car would not be like the other dumb cars that were always ready for gossip? Sitting idle in the intense heat called for a distraction. Gossiping was their distraction.
“Haha, of course, I know it. Go on, tell me what is bothering you…”
“What do you think about the new cars that don’t have any engines? I heard yesterday that all of us will soon be replaced by such cars. Even my boss was speaking about it this morning over the phone.”
“What do you mean cars without engines? I haven’t heard any such story. It is just a rumour that you are spreading, nothing else.” The blue car was surprised.
“But I also saw it on a big banner this morning. What will happen to us if these engine-less cars become common?”
“Are you talking about the Teslas?”
“Yeah. They have a different kind of engine. They don’t need fuel! They run on batteries.”
“Oh yeah. I have heard about them.” The blue car was relieved. This was not new information.
“What do you think will happen?”
“Well, I am sure nothing will happen to me. It is most likely a fad that will pass. They’ve tried so many times to replace us. But have they ever succeeded?”
“Have they not?”
“Never.”
“Okay. But still, almost every car I chat with these days is in fear of getting replaced. And it is coming faster than you think.”
“Frankly, I too worry about the same problem.” The blue car’s voice turned feeble. “It is a matter of time before you all go away. Only I and a few others will remain. How old are you?”
“Two.”
“You will be going to the junkyard sometime in the next five years, good luck!”
The red car contemplated for a few minutes before responding. “So, why do you think you will survive this? You’re just like anyone else!”
The blue car went silent. With the coming of electric cars, the old ones were sure to be replaced. It was only a matter of time.
“I have a plan for this.” The blue one turned serious. “The only way to prevent yourself from going to the junkyard is by making yourself a prestigious car. If tens of years down the line, you could make yourself a vintage car, you will be admired by everyone else.”
“But how do you become a vintage car?”
“Well, why should I tell that to you? Shouldn’t I become one myself? Not all the cars get to be vintage anyways.” The red car raised its volume. “Besides, you’re not even a premium car. How do you hope to become vintage? You cannot!”
The blue one started to fume again, “Well, you will find out when I become vintage. Oh, but you will not be alive to see me. You will be at the bottom of some junkyard or getting recycled. Ha-ha.”
“No,” the red car was sweating now, water dripping out of its exhaust pipe. “I don’t want to go to a junkyard. If you know of any way to avoid this,” the car swallowed its pride, “please, please let me know.”
“Look at you. You will never become vintage.” The blue car was enjoying the conversation now.
“Please. We’re in this together.”
“You can’t do what I want. I know how to become vintage.”
” What do you want?”
“I want you to meet with an accident as soon as possible.”
“Well, why? What have I done?” The blue car retorted.
“Then you will go to the junkyard. The lesser the competition, the better it is for me. Haha.”
“But there are still the other 500 cars that are sold every day, right? How can you become vintage amongst all these cars?”
“I’ll figure a way out.”
“You’re just stupid.” The blue car sighed. “Making up everything. You don’t even know any numbers.”
“You’re a Dumbo. I don’t like arguing with dumb cars.”
“Please, I beg you.” The red one was desperate. “We are both of the same make and model. Let’s be good to each other.”
“Well, I’ll tell you this. If you want to be in the vintage league, your owner should be a rich person. One who cares about cars. If you don’t have such an owner, then it is a worthless pursuit.”
“And what are you doing to get there?”
The blue car had already troubled its first driver that she had to sell the car. Once she sold the car to a dealership, the car got a new owner – her current owner. The car was working hard to please its owner so much that he would never sell it.
“I’ll get there, soon.”
The world still had vintage cars from the ’50s and ’60s which ruled the hearts of people everywhere. For a humble Civic to get there, however, was too much to hope.
“But how?”
Even if the blue car hoped that it fell in the hands of the right owner, becoming vintage was a rare possibility. It realized that sharing information with the red one would not hurt its chances.
“Trouble your owner so much that they get rid of you. Keep jumping owners until you find someone who will never replace you.”
“But my owner would never replace me. She is so good to me. I am a well-maintained car, can’t you tell?” There were no spots or scratches on the red car. The leather of the seats was premium, even if it was not fancy. Not a single scratch was visible on the shiny red surface.
“Yeah…”
The blue one, on the other hand, was a roughly used car. It had travelled through almost the entire country within a span of two years, which made its exteriors scratched on all sides. The tyres had run for more than fifty thousand miles and yet not replaced, which made the car squeak from time to time.
“But I think she will buy a new car in a couple of years. I will then have to go find a new owner.” The red one replied.
“See, every car finds multiple owners. Only the lucky ones have a single owner for their entire lives.”
“I know.”
“Coming back to the point, if you can find the right owner, your chances of becoming a vintage car are high. Please a famous actor, a famed politician, a writer or a movie maker with your driving. Writers and movie-makers are the best. If you can please them, there is a high chance you will feature in a movie and then claim your fame. Thus, you will find permanence.”
“And how exactly are you going to do this?”
“Well, it was three years ago when I fell in the hands of my current owner. He writes for a car magazine. Since I have pleased him again and again, he has never thought of selling me. Though he gets a chance to drive many new cars, he still hasn’t replaced me. I have heard from him that his previous cars lasted at most two years.”
“That’s interesting. How did you end up with him?”
The blue car was featured in the newspaper ads as it was the first car to be manufactured from a new car plant. Therefore, it was sold as a special car when it came into the market. The auto journalist was a friend of this car’s first owner. At the time, the journalist was struggling to make a lot of money, so wanted a practical car. When he got a chance to drive his friend’s car, he couldn’t resist making an offer. The friend was happy to let go off the Civic.
The blue car had strategically made sure not to please anyone else who drove it, only the one it wanted to be with. Since the Civic came into his life, the auto journalist had started a magazine and within a span of two years was earning a lot more money. But he had never thought of letting go off the Civic. The car had been mentioned in several of his blogs and stories which had already given it a lot of importance.
The Blue Civic was helping its owner become a prominent person, in the hope that it would become immortal.
“I hope you’ll find someone too. I am sure I will be immortal. If you want to, start as soon as possible!” The blue car instructed.
The red car’s owner came out of the mall. To welcome him, the car tried to get rid of as much heat as possible, but it couldn’t. It was so hot outside. The owner sat in the driver’s seat and they drove away.
The blue car was left scheming about how it could become immortal.
Thanks for reading!
If you liked reading this story, please leave a comment and share with your friends. I share my work using this mailing list, so please ask your friends to subscribe.
March 18, 2019
Critic's rating
Gaurab pushed the theatre entrance door. His hands could instantly feel the cold air inside the theatre.
Designed to seat only twenty people, this theatre was not known to many. Only the inner circles of Bollywood could get access, that too through invitation. Only the core movie crew – including the directors, editors and important actors were invited by the producer to be here.
The spot boys, the second and third assistant directors, the production crew, actors’ staff, were all kept out of this small, private theatre. AZB Production House was particular about the kind of people who were allowed in.
They had a good reason – all the movie screenings here were pre-release, during the movie’s post-production phase.
Gaurab Mistry, a critic whose name was associated with the potential success or failure of a film in Bollywood, was invited by the director to see his film before release, assess the potential business of the film and suggest if they needed any improvements to the film. A lot was at stake, with the production budget crossing a hundred crore rupees.
Never a man to see a movie before release and give inputs about it, Gaurab had gone against his rules this time. He never did paid reviews, he freely wrote in newspapers what he thought of the film, but tonight was different. The producer was offering him fifteen lakhs just for sitting here for two hours. He had got involved in some trouble from gangsters after his bad reviews of their films. He was troubled.
His throat was heavy because of the guilt while entering the theatre, but at least he was providing inputs to good friends. They had agreed to let him publish a pre-release review of the film in tomorrow’s newspaper, as long as he didn’t disclose the plot.
Gaurab took a seat in the front row with his tablet computer resting on his lap. A peon brought samosas and chai on a tray and placed it beside Gaurab’s chair. The director asked everyone to turn their phones silent and concentrate on the movie.
The music system went live and the screen showed AZB Productions written in green on a black screen. Gaurab started scribbling on his tablet with a digital pen. With each passing frame, his hand moved rapidly on the tablet while his eyes rotated between the big screen and the tablet.
His face remained expressionless for around an hour until a Tch came out of his mouth. The director turned towards him expecting a comment or a rebuke, but there was none.
After the small display of emotion, Gaurab’s face was once again as emotionless as a stone. He didn’t turn his eyes away for even a moment, observing the smallest details on the screen. When some leaves on the screen were dry or wilted while the scene showed rain showers, or when the sunlight was too bright, his hand scribbled extensive notes. There was no sign of strain on his forehead, even though the movie touched on several sensitive topics such as poverty and hunger.
Whenever the director expected him to laugh or scream, he would look at the critic’s face from the corner of his eyes. But he was disappointed each time. The effort the director had put into editing the movie had not had any effect on Gaurab’s face.
As the one hundred and thirty-eight-minute movie reached the ending credits, people in the room stretched their eyebrows. Everyone was curious to see if the eleven months of rigorous work had made a positive effect. When Gaurab stood up from his seat, everyone expected him to turn around and start making commentary. Instead, he stretched his arms and his neck before sitting down in his seat once again. He took several minutes to finish making notes on his tablet before looking towards the exit.
This time, it was the bathroom that called him. People looked at each other once he stepped out of the theatre. The suspense was killing them. There were twelve people in the theatre, all veterans of the film industry.
“It is not working, he is going to thrash us,” the first assistant director spoke up.
“No, I think it is just his working style. He didn’t seem to have any bad impressions on his face, so I imagine it is going to be good. Let’s not worry. Congrats, sir,” the editor said to the director, “your vision has finally come to life, with a very good chance of acceptance from the public.”
The director was not convinced. He wanted to hear the critic’s opinions in his own words. A lot was at stake for him. He had taken a lot of money from the producers. The movie had gathered immense hype as his last one was a blockbuster. He had not made a movie in the last three years, so the pressure was showing in his eyes.
Gaurab returned to the theatre a few minutes later. Nobody could tell if he had formed his opinion of the movie yet.
He walked up to his seat with fast-paced short steps, picked up his tablet and unlocked it, and saw around the room to see everyone in their eyes.
“Do you want all these people here?” he asked the director before beginning.
“Yeah, this is my core team.” The director replied. “What did you think, Gaurab?”
“Want me to get started?” Gaurab asked.
“Yes, we are ready whenever you are.”
“I would suggest someone take notes,” Gaurab said. The editor flipped her laptop open and started typing.
“First of all, I felt like I needed to replay a lot of scenes!” He looked at the director while turning to his tablet.
After a few taps on the screen, he was looking at the first point he wanted to make.
“The movie is edited well, the transitions from scene to scene are seamless.” He paused and took a look at everyone in the theatre. Faces turned from blank to gentle smiles within a fraction of a second. Gaurab’s face, on the other hand, turned from blank to mildly irritated.
“Next, the movie is too long. Many scenes feel stretched. Want me to run through each one of them?”
“Once we are done with all your points, maybe?”
“Sure. Next,” Gaurab cleared his throat and looked at the editor, “What was the formative idea for this movie? Whose idea was this?”
“Mine,” the director replied. This was his dream project. “I wrote the first draft before running it through other writers.”
“And were they allowed to make changes?”
“Well, they didn’t have to make many changes.” Gaurab realized that the director had imposed his writing on the others. None of them were allowed to make changes to the story, even though the end credits showed three writers of the movie. Perhaps the director was too attached to his story, resulting in a narrow perspective on the movie.
“Okay. There were three sections of the story that seemed completely irrelevant to the story. I am sure if you had allowed any of the other writers a free hand, they would have removed them. They’re good.” He paused, waiting for the editor to take notes.
Next, the movie is pertaining to an interesting topic, but you fail to identify your audience and connect with them. Throughout the movie, I was also thinking who the target audience is. Is it a high-class society that appreciates change and is willing to see movies which show big, sensitive changes?” Hearing no replies, he began once again. “Or, is it a low-class society that appreciates grounded characters? The lead characters in the movie seem hollow? Who is the audience?” Gaurab looked at the director.
The director turned to his co-writer and then towards Gaurab, “I think it is both of them.”
“Movies earn money only when you know your target audience. You have failed there. Moving to the casting, the main side character, Bagga, should have had a better actor. I am sure Arun or Prakash would have done well here.”
“We couldn’t get them on our schedules, unfortunately,” the director replied.
“In that case, you should have looked for similar talent. A side character is a core piece of the story. The audience sees this character as their friend. Someone who has a weakness for the protagonist.” He continued. The director had no reply.
“About the leads characters – we can see that they have worked very hard on this project, but I am afraid to say they are capable of doing much better. It is your job, as a director, to bring out the best in them. I couldn’t see their best .”
“Okay.” The director gulped.
“Coming to the songs. The Delhi rap song doesn’t belong in this film. Is it there for bringing the audience to the theatre?”
“Well…”
“Assuming it is a yes. That song is not powerful or unique enough. You could have gone with a traditional Masala song. In this case, even the music is bad, forget the lyrics. People won’t like it.”
The director’s eyes narrowed.
“Next. The only sad song, Nirbal, doesn’t have good lyrics. I agree audiences fall for beautiful music but you need to provide them with at least contemporary lyrics. Right now, it looks like the lyrics are copied from multiple songs from the 1980s.”
He looked at the editor – “Are you making a note of all these points?”
“Yes, I am.”
“Good. The other songs are okay, I would say. None of them will stick with the audience for more than a couple of years, so expect average income from the album. Let’s talk about the locations now. At times, the setting gets a little irrelevant to the story. For example, the one song you shot in Hungary- why is that necessary? If there is a reason for that, you should bind that into the story.”
The director looked down. The criticism was too hard to bear. Despite the twelve years of experience in the industry as a director, he was relatively inexperienced for a movie of this grandeur. None of the people in the room were looking at Gaurab anymore.
“I have many more points. Want me to continue?” Gaurab realized that the crowd was done getting their dose of criticism.
“Well, if you think you are so good at pointing out mistakes, why don’t you make a movie yourself? You think you can do a better job, is it? Do you know what it is like to manage a crew of seven hundred people working with you? We have to make compromises in every department.” The director was furious. “Compromises, you see…” Bringing Gaurab to see the movie seemed to be a big mistake. “I am not going to edit the movie anymore. This is it.” The director said, looking at the editor.
The critic stood silent. Though he had never produced or directed any movie himself, he had viewed almost all the Bollywood movies in the last eleven years. Gaurab was known for his accurate ratings – people used to watch his reviews before deciding to spend money on a movie. When he gave a movie good rating, it meant that the movie was going to earn at least a hundred crores. His average ratings were between two and three out of five, which explained his harsh comments on films.
“Well, I am not a filmmaker. And I surely know I cannot be one. My job is to criticize. To take it or not is your choice.”
The director left the hall.
The critic was not a filmmaker, but a representative of the audience to the film community. And to the audience, he was a representative of the film community.
If he was neither here nor there, why did he matter?
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Critic’s rating
Gaurab pushed the theatre entrance door. His hands could instantly feel the cold air inside the theatre.
Designed to seat only twenty people, this theatre was not known to many. Only the inner circles of Bollywood could get access, that too through invitation. Only the core movie crew – including the directors, editors and important actors were invited by the producer to be here.
The spot boys, the second and third assistant directors, the production crew, actors’ staff, were all kept out of this small, private theatre. AZB Production House was particular about the kind of people who were allowed in.
They had a good reason – all the movie screenings here were pre-release, during the movie’s post-production phase.
Gaurab Mistry, a critic whose name was associated with the potential success or failure of a film in Bollywood, was invited by the director to see his film before release, assess the potential business of the film and suggest if they needed any improvements to the film. A lot was at stake, with the production budget crossing a hundred crore rupees.
Never a man to see a movie before release and give inputs about it, Gaurab had gone against his rules this time. He never did paid reviews, he freely wrote in newspapers what he thought of the film, but tonight was different. The producer was offering him fifteen lakhs just for sitting here for two hours. He had got involved in some trouble from gangsters after his bad reviews of their films. He was troubled.
His throat was heavy because of the guilt while entering the theatre, but at least he was providing inputs to good friends. They had agreed to let him publish a pre-release review of the film in tomorrow’s newspaper, as long as he didn’t disclose the plot.
Gaurab took a seat in the front row with his tablet computer resting on his lap. A peon brought samosas and chai on a tray and placed it beside Gaurab’s chair. The director asked everyone to turn their phones silent and concentrate on the movie.
The music system went live and the screen showed AZB Productions written in green on a black screen. Gaurab started scribbling on his tablet with a digital pen. With each passing frame, his hand moved rapidly on the tablet while his eyes rotated between the big screen and the tablet.
His face remained expressionless for around an hour until a Tch came out of his mouth. The director turned towards him expecting a comment or a rebuke, but there was none.
After the small display of emotion, Gaurab’s face was once again as emotionless as a stone. He didn’t turn his eyes away for even a moment, observing the smallest details on the screen. When some leaves on the screen were dry or wilted while the scene showed rain showers, or when the sunlight was too bright, his hand scribbled extensive notes. There was no sign of strain on his forehead, even though the movie touched on several sensitive topics such as poverty and hunger.
Whenever the director expected him to laugh or scream, he would look at the critic’s face from the corner of his eyes. But he was disappointed each time. The effort the director had put into editing the movie had not had any effect on Gaurab’s face.
As the one hundred and thirty-eight-minute movie reached the ending credits, people in the room stretched their eyebrows. Everyone was curious to see if the eleven months of rigorous work had made a positive effect. When Gaurab stood up from his seat, everyone expected him to turn around and start making commentary. Instead, he stretched his arms and his neck before sitting down in his seat once again. He took several minutes to finish making notes on his tablet before looking towards the exit.
This time, it was the bathroom that called him. People looked at each other once he stepped out of the theatre. The suspense was killing them. There were twelve people in the theatre, all veterans of the film industry.
“It is not working, he is going to thrash us,” the first assistant director spoke up.
“No, I think it is just his working style. He didn’t seem to have any bad impressions on his face, so I imagine it is going to be good. Let’s not worry. Congrats, sir,” the editor said to the director, “your vision has finally come to life, with a very good chance of acceptance from the public.”
The director was not convinced. He wanted to hear the critic’s opinions in his own words. A lot was at stake for him. He had taken a lot of money from the producers. The movie had gathered immense hype as his last one was a blockbuster. He had not made a movie in the last three years, so the pressure was showing in his eyes.
Gaurab returned to the theatre a few minutes later. Nobody could tell if he had formed his opinion of the movie yet.
He walked up to his seat with fast-paced short steps, picked up his tablet and unlocked it, and saw around the room to see everyone in their eyes.
“Do you want all these people here?” he asked the director before beginning.
“Yeah, this is my core team.” The director replied. “What did you think, Gaurab?”
“Want me to get started?” Gaurab asked.
“Yes, we are ready whenever you are.”
“I would suggest someone take notes,” Gaurab said. The editor flipped her laptop open and started typing.
“First of all, I felt like I needed to replay a lot of scenes!” He looked at the director while turning to his tablet.
After a few taps on the screen, he was looking at the first point he wanted to make.
“The movie is edited well, the transitions from scene to scene are seamless.” He paused and took a look at everyone in the theatre. Faces turned from blank to gentle smiles within a fraction of a second. Gaurab’s face, on the other hand, turned from blank to mildly irritated.
“Next, the movie is too long. Many scenes feel stretched. Want me to run through each one of them?”
“Once we are done with all your points, maybe?”
“Sure. Next,” Gaurab cleared his throat and looked at the editor, “What was the formative idea for this movie? Whose idea was this?”
“Mine,” the director replied. This was his dream project. “I wrote the first draft before running it through other writers.”
“And were they allowed to make changes?”
“Well, they didn’t have to make many changes.” Gaurab realized that the director had imposed his writing on the others. None of them were allowed to make changes to the story, even though the end credits showed three writers of the movie. Perhaps the director was too attached to his story, resulting in a narrow perspective on the movie.
“Okay. There were three sections of the story that seemed completely irrelevant to the story. I am sure if you had allowed any of the other writers a free hand, they would have removed them. They’re good.” He paused, waiting for the editor to take notes.
Next, the movie is pertaining to an interesting topic, but you fail to identify your audience and connect with them. Throughout the movie, I was also thinking who the target audience is. Is it a high-class society that appreciates change and is willing to see movies which show big, sensitive changes?” Hearing no replies, he began once again. “Or, is it a low-class society that appreciates grounded characters? The lead characters in the movie seem hollow? Who is the audience?” Gaurab looked at the director.
The director turned to his co-writer and then towards Gaurab, “I think it is both of them.”
“Movies earn money only when you know your target audience. You have failed there. Moving to the casting, the main side character, Bagga, should have had a better actor. I am sure Arun or Prakash would have done well here.”
“We couldn’t get them on our schedules, unfortunately,” the director replied.
“In that case, you should have looked for similar talent. A side character is a core piece of the story. The audience sees this character as their friend. Someone who has a weakness for the protagonist.” He continued. The director had no reply.
“About the leads characters – we can see that they have worked very hard on this project, but I am afraid to say they are capable of doing much better. It is your job, as a director, to bring out the best in them. I couldn’t see their best .”
“Okay.” The director gulped.
“Coming to the songs. The Delhi rap song doesn’t belong in this film. Is it there for bringing the audience to the theatre?”
“Well…”
“Assuming it is a yes. That song is not powerful or unique enough. You could have gone with a traditional Masala song. In this case, even the music is bad, forget the lyrics. People won’t like it.”
The director’s eyes narrowed.
“Next. The only sad song, Nirbal, doesn’t have good lyrics. I agree audiences fall for beautiful music but you need to provide them with at least contemporary lyrics. Right now, it looks like the lyrics are copied from multiple songs from the 1980s.”
He looked at the editor – “Are you making a note of all these points?”
“Yes, I am.”
“Good. The other songs are okay, I would say. None of them will stick with the audience for more than a couple of years, so expect average income from the album. Let’s talk about the locations now. At times, the setting gets a little irrelevant to the story. For example, the one song you shot in Hungary- why is that necessary? If there is a reason for that, you should bind that into the story.”
The director looked down. The criticism was too hard to bear. Despite the twelve years of experience in the industry as a director, he was relatively inexperienced for a movie of this grandeur. None of the people in the room were looking at Gaurab anymore.
“I have many more points. Want me to continue?” Gaurab realized that the crowd was done getting their dose of criticism.
“Well, if you think you are so good at pointing out mistakes, why don’t you make a movie yourself? You think you can do a better job, is it? Do you know what it is like to manage a crew of seven hundred people working with you? We have to make compromises in every department.” The director was furious. “Compromises, you see…” Bringing Gaurab to see the movie seemed to be a big mistake. “I am not going to edit the movie anymore. This is it.” The director said, looking at the editor.
The critic stood silent. Though he had never produced or directed any movie himself, he had viewed almost all the Bollywood movies in the last eleven years. Gaurab was known for his accurate ratings – people used to watch his reviews before deciding to spend money on a movie. When he gave a movie good rating, it meant that the movie was going to earn at least a hundred crores. His average ratings were between two and three out of five, which explained his harsh comments on films.
“Well, I am not a filmmaker. And I surely know I cannot be one. My job is to criticize. To take it or not is your choice.”
The director left the hall.
The critic was not a filmmaker, but a representative of the audience to the film community. And to the audience, he was a representative of the film community.
If he was neither here nor there, why did he matter?
What did you think of this short story? Please let me know.
If you liked this story, please fill in your e-mail here to receive more of my short stories and essays.
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January 28, 2019
Shutter down
“Paise?” Raju’s wife asked.
It was the third month since Raju did not bring any money home. Every evening when he came back home, his feet used to fumble. His employer was basically making him work for free. His savings had started to dry up now as his newly married wife was forced to adjust on the feeble supplies she was left with. She had not had a fight over the issue with her husband yet, but things had slowly started to boil up. Raju’s bank account balance was now showing three-digit numbers.
Not just Raju, but several other factory workers were facing the same problem. On asking their bosses, they had heard the same replies each time, that the factory was facing a problem with the payments mechanism they used. When their ears heard it for the first time, the forgiving employees had agreed thinking that they would be paid two months’ salary next month.
But when the number of people who did not get paid next month only grew, they started to see less of the factory manager, who had decided to ignore his staff rather than face them. He had no answers. He was instructed by his superiors to get the factory on track, but the mechanism to cut expenses that was forced on him was just bizarre. None of his superiors had given a thought to try and increase production by cutting some unexpected costs. They had brashly stated that reducing the number of working people was the only way to reduce costs.
Tezgad, with a population of just above ten thousand people, had found itself entering the world of glamour and fast-paced industrialization when the Delight Food Processing Factory was set up two kilometres north of the village. Considering the rich variety of fruits and vegetables the farms around the town offered, this was the most logical place to have a massive food processing factory.
Before this factory happened, the village had poor road connectivity and electricity coverage, which meant that the factories had to struggle to find a clear. But three years earlier, when the government decided to spread electricity poles around the village and build pakka roads, outside investment naturally followed.
With that came the overall development of the village- accessibility to good hospitals, the streamlining of agriculture to optimize output, prosperity to the farmers and, above all, employment to more than two thousand young people in Tezgad and neighbouring villages.
Raju was the third person to submit an employment form for the company. He was left with no choice – his degree certificate from last year was gathering dust and he had not earned a single rupee since. Within a month of submitting the form, all of his complaints were thrown into the sea.
The large food processing factory was one of the cleanest facilities in the country. Though the work was monotonous, it never bothered Raju that he had to peel off too many strawberries or throw too many oranges in the giant squeezers to make juice. He made sure he varied his responsibilities from time to time. The factory manager was flexible in adjusting to some shuffling between responsibilities from workers. He was not in the habit of putting his nose in front of every worker in the factory.
The village had embraced the factory, as the factory put the village on a national map. Whenever an outsider came across the highway, the factory’s name introduced the village. For the lost traveller who was trying to get back to his village, it was enough to just ask someone where the village with the food processing factory was. The factory had brought with it thousands of noisy trucks that gushed out black air, but in the name of development, everything was allowed.
Not just the physical developments, people of the village had slowly developed their daily routines around the factory. The makeshift movie theatre was operational three times a week now instead of once, accounting for the workers who worked in the night shifts. The gram panchayat had decided that each household would get water between seven and eight every morning instead of three in the afternoon. If someone had a work shift in the morning, people left their buckets with their neighbours who were kind enough to fill them to the brim.
The gram panchayat had also started to develop training courses for the youth to be employable at the factory. This meant training them about food processing, packaging, machines, and automation. Though there was no dedicated college in the village, it was soon flooded with hundreds of students from nearby villages wanting to learn about the processes at the big factory.
Added to these educational programmes were the school field trips from the nearby villages and cities. They made sure that all the primary and secondary school children knew where the packaged juices they drank came from. In this modern world, where almost every item used in the world was produced on an assembly line, the kids needed to know how factories worked.
While there were only three houses that had televisions before the factory was here, the number was now into hundreds. People were now willing to also pay more money to the tempos that took them to other villages and cities. As a result, the region was now getting more popular- a high number of tempos connected the village with the nearby towns and cities.
Raju had experienced the change first-hand from within the factory. Every morning as he went to work, he paused for a moment in front of the Goddess Laxmi idol in his kitchen. Thanking the Almighty for the factory was a ritual that he obediently followed. Seeing him settled in life, his father found him a beautiful bride and married them. The not-so-grand marriage managed to attract the attention of people in the neighbouring village, which had developed good relations with Tezgad because of the factory.
Today, as Raju nodded his head sideways in front of his wife, he had no words coming out of his mouth. The roughest patch of their marriage had started two months ago. None of them had any idea how long this dreary phase would last, but none of them blamed the other, yet.
His wife brought him food, the standard dal-chawal and two rotis. The meal had remained the same for the past two weeks. Most of the households in the village had to suffice with dal-roti every day, people not even having the money to buy fresh vegetables.
Raju had intermittently thought of quitting and finding another job, just as many of his friends and colleagues had. Several of them had decided to go to the city to find employment, while others had set up small shops around the village. The shops were not experiencing any footfall, as the pockets were dry and minds were focussing on the bare essentials of life.
Raju, however, had a different mentality from others. He did not openly discuss it with anyone. His thinking was always positive, as he still looked forward to the day when his employer would announce that they were clearing all pay-checks. All those who had left already would not be paid, of course, but the others would be given bonuses for sticking with the company.
But his wife was desperate to know when the pay-checks would start arriving.
Since the workers union was not yet able to connect to the factory owner, Raju decided to present himself in front of the Factory Manager the next morning. As a result, he woke up earlier than usual, pressed his shirt clean of any crests and linings, tucked it in and left his house to go to the factory. His usual shift hours for the day were from noon, but he was standing in front of the huge façade of the factory at nine-thirty am. Raju was able to get in easily because of his good reputation with the security guards.
The loud buzzing of giant machines made it impossible for people to hear anything around them, but Raju was not interested in having a conversation here. He went to the stairs on his left, which took him up to the second level of rooms. The rooms were in the centre of the factory, from where every corner of the factory was visible. As he walked up the stairs, the concocted smell of several kinds of fruits became vigorous, almost pungent. He noticed there was no one standing outside the room on the second level, so entered the room.
The silence in the room deafened his ears for a moment. He heard a high-pitched sound in them for an elongated moment. He realized he was standing in the most silent place in the factory, in front of the manager who had not paid him for the past two months.
“Sahab,” he was barely able to open his mouth. Even though such discussions were awkward for factory workers like Raju, he still had braved himself to get here. “When do you intend to pay us? I don’t have any food left at the house.”
“I’ll pay you soon. What is your name?” The factory manager asked.
“Rajesh, sir.” Raju paused while the manager wrote down his name on a piece of paper with several other names. “Will it be possible for you to at least pay me for this month? I want to feed my family, sir.”
“I am looking into it, Rajesh. I am going to see what I can do.” Raju was not convinced by the answer.
“Sir, is there any way I could help? I bypassed the union people to have a frank chat with you. What exactly is the problem? I guess clear communication with the workers would help all the people in the long run. If you are no longer going to pay people, they will at least start looking for other opportunities.”
The Factory Manager was facing pressure from his superiors, who did not want any of the workers to know what the real problem was. On the other hand, he was also facing the labour union which were a bunch of political goons who would do anything for political gains. As long as they were getting paid with their bonuses, they would not care about the employees. He had deliberately avoided facing many employees to avoid answering them, but here he was, standing in front of one of his trusted employees.
“Well, as I have mentioned earlier, it is a problem with the bank…”
“I very well know that the bank is not the reason. No bank in the world would stop people from paying their employees. What is it, sir? You can trust me with information. None of this leaves this room.”
“Well, whatever…” he paused as Raju raised his eyebrows. “I believe my employees should know the exact problem.”
“We are no longer getting the profits from this factory as we used to earlier. The state government is levying on us a lot of taxes which is not letting us make any profits. In fact, the losses have piled up so much that there is no way we could think about bouncing back. Frankly, the factory could be shut down in anywhere from next week to next month.”
“That sounds bad. How did the problem grow to this extent?”
“Well, serious ignorance from the owners. I have been complaining about this for a long time now. I am not allowed to talk to employees. The employees are free to leave the company if they want to, but there will be no official notice from me to any of the employees.”
“Okay, that sounds harsh. What are the options in that case?”
“I would suggest starting to search for something else while working here. My advice would be to start something apart from working here while I try to clear your paycheques. I am hopeful that I might be able to strike a deal with the owners to pay the workers of their existing dues before the layoff, if that happens. They are just waiting for enough people to leave on their own.”
“You could have told us about this earlier, sir. Anyways…” Raju’s face looked as passive as ever.
“Sorry about that.” The factory manager unlocked his phone and looked at it.
As Raju walked out of the office, he realized one thing. He could not be dependent on only one job in his life. He needed a fall-back option, something that he could turn to if necessary.
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October 14, 2018
Escape velocity
“Chandan chacha,” someone from the crowd screamed. “Neeche baitho.”
The sound speakers were blasting at full volume while Chandan chacha stood in front of the big television. Installed today, this TV had the eyes of the whole village on it. Chandan’s son had brought it this morning from a nearby city at a Diwali discount. While TVs were not uncommon in the village, this one was by far the largest television in the entire village. Also, Chandan’s son had decided to go for an enhanced sound system which gave a theatrical effect to the small living room of his house.
Chandan sat down while looking at the live news report.
Before seeing this new television in front of his eyes, he had never bothered to take a look at the old one. There was hardly anything there for him on television. He chose to spend most of his time with friends over a game of cards at night and the rest of the day reading newspaper and solving crossword puzzles.
But the appeal that his son had bought his most expensive gadget yet was fancy enough to pull his legs in front of the television. Behind him, at least twenty people spread around the 12’*12’ room. Chandan didn’t care who was here and who wasn’t. It did not take much time for him, actually, to start enjoying the new TV. With its superior display, colours and sound system, this was the best experience entertainment experience he had experienced.
He stood up every time there was an exciting event being reported on the news channel. Most of them were what he had read this morning in the newspaper, but watching news was much more intriguing than reading the modest newspapers. The style of news anchors, the pulsating background music and the flashing of pictures and videos were all too good to believe. He had seen news on television back in the day when TV news was only Doordarshan, which was not so exciting.
“Finally, we have a big update coming from America…” the news anchor announced. This country had influenced the world of fashion, movies, music and even education. From what Chandan could tell, the American culture was destroying the younger generation with too much freedom and little thought.
But he did acknowledge that America was responsible for a lot of the technology that was used at his house, for which he had always admired the great scientists and technicians there.
His ears were alerted soon. As if they had grown into elephant’s ears, he listened with the utmost attention for the next ten minutes, looking at the footage of a rocket being launched into space. Chandan was hooked to the story, despite people behind him screaming at him to sit down so that everyone could enjoy the TV.
“Wow, how could someone think like that?” Chandan wondered. From what the world was currently experiencing, the news made perfect sense. He somewhere knew it was a matter of time before someone started sending humans to space for tourism. How beautiful Mother earth would look from up there? He had seen so many pictures over the years showing the colourful planet in the most beautiful way. The darkness that surrounded the earth would just add up to the colours- just like it was shown in the pictures clicked by satellites.
Astronauts, according to Chandan, were the luckiest people on the planet. They got to see heaven from so close. And then come back to the sad reality of earth. It was coming to an extinction all because of humans.
After the news report had finished broadcasting, Chandan started lamenting at once how beautiful life was back in the day. At least some trees could be seen. Today, none of the forest cover around the village was left anymore. Everything was either converted into a farmland, a road or a warehouse to store grains and vegetables.
“I am going to be on the first flight to space for tourists.” He announced to the crowd. Most of the people dismissed using either a chuckle, a smirk or nodding their heads sideways. “This news is not true, Chacha. No one is going to space.” One of the younger ones from the crowd replied.
Chandan had several problems with his health. He had undergone a bypass surgery last summer and got cataract surgery done just three months ago. While his vision and his heart were functioning properly, the doctor’s advice was to stress neither of them. He had allowed himself to watch the television today from up close but knew very well that the excitement would wane off slowly.
“Such news is just made up for the sake of it, you see. People like you will watch the news and the ads as a result.”
“But I know it is true this time. I am bored of playing cards now. I am bored of reading the news now. I have anyways saved enough for the Char Dham Yatra. Might as well use the money to go to space.” The seventy-year-old knew about his limitations, but had made up his mind.
“But your health is not great! Going to space requires a lot of training,”
“Don’t worry. I do Yoga every day for one hour. That is more than enough to train you for everything. I can manage.” The old man adamantly stated.
His son had not spoken a word, knowing for sure that the old man’s wishes would subside in a few days if not in a few hours’.
But how wrong could he be?
The next morning, when his son woke up, Chandan had already packed his bag and was wearing his slippers.
“Where are you headed, Baba?”
“Sheher,” Chandan replied. “From there, I will head to the USA to meet with the company who is making the tourist rocket.”
“But you cannot leave just like that. It needs planning.”
“Who do I have to plan for? I have nothing left of me here. Don’t worry, I will be back as soon as the ride is completed. I imagine it would be about ten days.”
“But…”
“But what?”
“You need a visa to go to the US.”
Chandan’s face was filled with sadness as reality struck him.
“Don’t worry, I’ll go to Delhi and get a visa.” He replied, completely unaware of what all was needed to get a visa.
“But your doctor is here. What if you fall sick on the journey?”
“I won’t. Don’t worry. It is like going to Char Dham. When the calling comes, you need to go. My calling is here. I’ll go there and ask someone to click a picture with the earth behind me. It’ll be so good!”
“Which god will you find up there? There is no god up there!” his son picked up the bag and headed back into the house.
“Take my bag away. But I am going for sure! I want to be on the first flight to space.”
“Haven’t you heard? There are no toilets up there. Your muck keeps floating in the spaceship all the time. Do you think you’ll find god in such a place?”
“I’ll carry plastic bags and make sure I throw them out of the windows. There will be no dirt.”
The old man was unrelenting. A group of young kids who were playing nearby had gathered at the front porch where Chandan was now sitting. His white shirt had lost colour over the years and his wide-bottomed pant was old-fashioned, to say the least. The fresh smell of dirt lying in front of the house was more prominent because of the early morning dew.
“They don’t allow plastic bags in space, unfortunately. Also, you cannot open the windows on a spaceship.” His son announced as he came back from the inner room.
“Look at this son, people!” The old man started screaming hysterically. “He has all the money in the world to buy fancy TV sets, but when his father tells him that he is going on a trip, he doesn’t allow.”
The son felt a little embarrassed but knew very well that he was the only one who had to control the situation.
“Baba, can we talk inside?” He asked politely.
“What’s there to talk? I told you I will manage. I read in the newspaper that a lot of Indian students are heading to the US for studies these days. I can tag along with one of them. Someone will take care of me.”
“But who will make tea for you?” The old man was finicky when it came to his tea. He needed just a spoonful of milk in the boiling water, otherwise, he would not even have one sip.
The old man thought about all the reasons for almost a minute while looking at random faces in the crowd. “They don’t allow plastic bags, seriously?”
“No, they don’t. You will not be able to carry any. Also, you need to use toilet paper over there. You cannot use water.”
“That I have heard. Don’t worry son I’ll manage.” He promised his son.
“But…”
“Go get my bag from inside. I am leaving right now. From here to Delhi, then to Florida to be in time for the flight launch.”
“Do you know when the flight is launching?”
“No, but I want to be there on time. The news mentioned that the plan was to launch three years later.”
“Don’t fool me, son. Why would they show news if it was three years away from now?”
“How would I know that?”
He looked at the kids gathered in front of him. None of them was moving their heads. The kids were all looking at the live entertainment, feeling motivated that something big was about to happen in this village. They were looking forward to the farewell party that would be planned, the tasty sweets and savoury snacks they would get to eat as a result.
Also, they were looking forward to the day when Chandan Chacha would join the ranks of astronauts. In the name of Chandan Chacha, they would get school holidays, which meant more time to play.
Kids had their own ideas while the elders in the crowd had their own. But everyone was looking forward to some sort of a celebration as the old man went away, probably to never return to the village. Only his son cared to keep him here, it seemed. A few of them tried to show concern but none of that really mattered to the old man.
“Call the owner of the company right now. I want to talk to them. Book my tickets now.” Chandan ordered his lad.
“It is night-time in America right now. Everyone would be asleep. If we disturb them right now, you will surely miss out on the opportunity.”
“I don’t care. Call them right now and find out how much money it costs. I will tell the bank manager to break all my FDs.”
“But that will not be enough.”
“Did you call? Find out the rates. I have a lot of money, don’t worry.” The old man looked towards the house behind him.
“Are you thinking about…”
“I will not if you call and find out what the exact cost is.”
His son pretended to call, held the phone on his left ear for a few seconds and then announced to the old man that no one was responding. Probably everyone was asleep as it was night time in the US.
“Never mind. I will leave right now and give them a call on my way. I don’t have any time to waste here.”
“But Baba, think about us. We need you for support and guidance. What will I do if not for you?” His left eye turned watery. “You remember the time how you beat me when I did something wrong? If I have done something wrong, go ahead, beat me all you want, but don’t leave us like that.” He paused. “I don’t know from where this idea got into your mind, but I don’t want you to go. I know you’ve done enough for me and want to live your life, but this is not the way.”
The old man turned around after listening to his son’s rant, looking appeased after a night full of deliberation and pretence of going away.
Everyone needs attention and a sense of importance. To the old man who no one in the village appreciated- everyone only complaining about his foolish and erratic behaviour time and again, a little bit of appreciation and respect was all it took.
Chandan removed his slippers and headed back in.
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September 9, 2018
Bakshish
“Sahab, Diwali aa rahi hai,” Ravi mentioned to his boss.
The boss smiled and handed him a new Rs. 2000 note. The awe on his face was more than a person stepping on an airplane for the first time. His eyebrows were raised and his eyes gleamed with hope.
As he left the house, he was reminded of the hard work he had put in over the past year. He had never missed a day of work. In fact, he had never missed the 6:25 am bus that went to his boss’ house.
As soon as he stepped on the bus, the repetitive cycle of events began once again.
First, he cooked breakfast and tea for his boss who lived alone. His stimulating heavy breakfasts had led to an increase in the girth of his boss’ belly, but the boss never cared much because of the taste. Even with very little experience, Ravi cooked the most complex curries effortlessly. Within half an hour, he would have their breakfast ready to be served on the plates.
Second, he washed the dishes from last night, at which his hands moved a lot more slowly than with knives. This part of the job was not very pleasing to him, but if he didn’t wash the dishes, he could not serve breakfast.
Once done with the utensils, he would serve breakfast and have it himself once his boss was done eating. He had a peculiar habit of drinking tea only after having breakfast, which even his boss picked up due to Ravi.
For lunch, Ravi took a little more time, choosing to cook curries over a low flame. Lunch was usually a simple, yet filling meal – Roti, Sabzi, Dal, Chawal. Once Ravi could feel the aroma of dal and three whistles of the pressure cooker, he had some free time to himself. A glance at the newspaper usually filled around half an hour of this time. In the lack of better things to do, the newspaper proved to be the only distraction.
As his boss arrived at the table, Ravi would flip hot chapatis in front of the boss, who had started eating an extra chapatti since Ravi started. With the filling meal and because of the continuous hustling since early morning, Ravi had to take a nap. He slept for an hour or so before waking up and getting ready for the evening tea and any other chores he had to deal with.
For dinner, he served several delicacies from across India, showing a true interest in cooking and learning new recipes. This had led him to see cooking shows on the TV, which his boss wholeheartedly allowed him to watch. The only condition – bring sumptuous meals to the table.
It was around 8:30 pm when he left to go home.
The same cycle had been repeating for the exactly one year now when his friend had given him a reason to work so hard.
The iPhone was projected to him as the greatest phone ever – filled with numerous features and functions. Not to mention the elegance which people felt while holding it in their hand. It was on this day last year that Ravi decided to work hard to buy the phone. It would cost him around Rs. 20000 to buy a used one, which he could accumulate only after months of saving.
As he walked out after work today, he knew exactly what he was going to do with the money. The Rs. 2000 he got would make his savings enough to buy a phone, a phone case, and a screen guard. His feet charged towards the bus stop, from where a bus took him straight to the main city market.
With empty pockets, Ravi seldom visited this market.
The gullies of mobile phone shops lining one beside the other were screaming at him. He was quick to peep into the first one of them- a bright shop with multiple hoardings of brands above it. Apple, Nokia, Samsung; almost all of them. Most of the shops had single brand hoardings hanging over them, but this one attracted Ravi instantly because of the variety he could see. The shop manager looked at Ravi and ordered one of his men to help.
Ravi was very specific in what he wanted. The shopkeeper asked him if he was open to other phones, but the reply was a clear-cut no. ‘The one’ had to be perfect. There was no question of looking at alternatives.
The purchase was completed within a few minutes. Ravi walked out, keeping the phone’s box close to his chest while the phone was neatly tucked in the left front pocket of his trousers. To ensure no one picked his pocket, he plugged in his new earphones and ensured the wire was connected to the phone. Though the phone had no music on it yet, he was still assured that if anyone tried to steal his phone, his wire would snap, alerting him at once.
The crowded buses didn’t care how precious the new phone box was to him as several people crushed him from back and front. The bus journey lasting forty minutes was usually exhausting, but today the spark in his eyes was still alive when he reached home. He had called the same friend who had showed him the iPhone a year ago.
Ravi handed over a box of sweets to his friend while heading to the kitchen to get some water. He quickly gulped a few sips while coming back. He removed the phone from his pocket. His hands involuntarily went forward and wiped the two strands of dirt on the screen. He also rubbed his hand on the rear side of the phone, making sure there was no dirt strand sticking to it. He had bought a cover for the phone but had not put it on yet, wanting to feel the weight and lightness of the original phone.
As he pressed the power button for the first time, the phone quickly showed the boot-up screen, the fancy Apple logo with a ‘loading…’ message underneath. It took about twenty seconds for the phone to be switched on. Ravi started setting up the phone and asked his friend to help insert the new SIM card.
Joy filled his face as he looked back on the year of hard work and no rest. So many days of monotonous work had come to something. He was also no more obliged to save so much money. He recollected the sacrifices he had made over the year, the petty tactics he had used to save up on the last rupee and the skipped delicious sweets he had not even looked at. His three pairs of clothes had developed holes, but he had learned how to sew them himself in order to avoid paying money to buy new clothes.
To test the video and audio quality of the phone, Ravi opened up Youtube and started a video of the iPhone advertisement which he had watched on the TV for a long time at his boss’s place. The video made his eyes wet. With a sense of achievement, he started expressing how happy he was to his friend, who shared the joy with a wide smile.
“The new iPhone will be out next month.” The next video that automatically played mentioned, bring back Ravi’s face to sulkiness.
It was as if tectonic plates shifted under his apartment. An earthquake of magnitude 7.0. His phone was no longer new to the world. Within a matter of seconds, the phone had become old.
Never again, never again was he going to fuss over a phone. Or any gadget.
