Ranjit Kulkarni's Blog, page 30

Help

On a normal working day, Robin Warne would be in some corporate meeting this time in the afternoon. But today was a light afternoon at work, to his delight. So he sat at his desk staring at the laptop screen, pretending to be busy. At his level in the company, he couldn’t afford to look as if he had no work. He read news ensuring no one else saw him. In a corner of the screen, he had an eye on the stock market as it was time for its closing. Nothing on his face indicated the fact that he was free. It had an artificial expression of overwork.

The face was not as uncluttered as his workspace though. His cubicle was always in order. Photographs of his family, a coffee cup, papers related to his work organised well. He looked at them, mused over his free afternoon, and thought life was not that bad.

In fact, it was rather good.

His colleague, James, dropped in at Robin’s desk.

“I need a small piece of help from you. Are you free for a few minutes?” James asked.

Robin looked up from his laptop after a gap of a few moments. In those seconds, he closed the browser and shifted to his email. It’s a bit dicey to answer such direct questions in corporate circles. With experience, he had found smart ways to evade them.

“Let me check my calendar, one sec. By the way, what do you need?” Robin asked.

James paused for a few seconds and continued. “Well, it’s a personal favour.”

“Hmm. Ok – I have a meeting at 4.30 pm for which I need to go through some slides,” Robin said. “Looks like I am open for the next thirty minutes. How may I help you?” Robin asked. It was an expert example of well-enacted keenness within his fake busyness.

“Great, it shouldn’t take more than ten minutes,” James broke into a smile. “There is a friend of mine who has got an offer from Microsystems Corporation.”

“Oh OK, that’s wonderful,” Robin exulted, and broke into a grin. He had genuine, fond memories of working there a few years back.

James shuffled his feet. He stuttered and his face showed some hesitation before he spoke.

“I was.. umm.. chatting with him and… looks like…err.. he would appreciate some help on.. umm.. the company and their work culture. I wanted to check if you are open to.. well.. helping him with a brief chat as.. I think.. you have worked there earlier?”

Robin patted James on his shoulder, not losing any opportunity for one-upmanship.

“Oh James. Feel free to ask for help. No worries. Microsystems is a great place to work,” Robin affirmed. “Give me his number. I will call him when I have some free time,” he said.

James moved closer to Robin in small steps. He sneaked inside his cubicle and slipped on to an empty chair opposite Robin. Then he whispered over Robin’s shoulder. “Actually I am sorry for this sudden request, Robin. But he has come over to the office. His name is Steve, and he is sitting in that meeting room in there.” James pointed to the glass room on the other side of the corridor.

Robin peeped over his cubicle to the meeting room. A man stood inside the glass wall.

“Oh, he is here? That’s cool,” he said, shrugging his shoulders, but with eyebrows raised.

“Yeah,” James mumbled, with a sheepish smile. “If you could drop in and have a quick chat, that would be great.”

“Yeah sure. Anytime. I am here to help. Will go right away,” said Robin.

“Thanks a lot, Robin, for your help. Sorry for the trouble and the short notice,” James said. “By the way, could you let me know when you finish?” James asked, walking out.

“Will do. No worries. Happy to be of help,” said Robin. He stood up and started walking towards the meeting room.

***

The meeting room had a large table with six chairs. It had glass walls and doors.

“Hi. Are you Steve?” Robin asked after he entered.

Steve stood facing the external facing glass wall. It had a view of the road below. He wore a grey suit with his hands in his pocket. He had his back to Robin as he entered. Robin could sense a certain swagger in the way Steve stood. On hearing Robin, Steve turned around.

“Yes I am Steve.”

“Ok great. I am Robin. James told me about you,” Robin said, thrusting his hand forward.

The smile on Steve’s face disappeared and his face turned pale. “Oh – is it?” Steve asked.

Robin’s extended hand stayed hanging. Steve didn’t shake it, and asked Robin to sit. Robin pulled a chair with a scowl on his face. He sat down, getting his hand back, shaking his head, facing the floor to hide his scowl. He was about to ask Steve to take a seat.

But he noticed that he was already sitting when he looked up. “Quite an arrogant guy, this Steve chap,” Robin mused as he formed his first impression.

“What did he tell you?” Steve asked.

Robin gathered himself from his thoughts. “James told me that you got an offer from Microsystems Corporation. Congratulations,” Robin said and this time did not put his hand forward. “He said you needed some help before deciding.”

Steve smiled staring into blank space. “Yes – that’s right. I am currently working with Net Solve Corporation and was wondering if it would be a good move. How long did you work with Microsystems?”

This was too abrupt for Robin’s liking. No courtesies. No thank you. No permissions. Straight question. Like an interview. The temperature in Robin’s head started rising steadily.

“Well I worked there for around four years. It is a nice place. They are a decent bunch of people, who….,” Steve cut Robin short mid-sentence. “Yeah, I have heard so,” he said.

Robin fumed this time. He looked Steve straight in the eye to ensure he realised his displeasure. But Robin found that Steve was looking through him.

“Did you know anyone in marketing?” Steve asked Robin, and turned his head to the right, as if waiting for an answer to fall on his left ear.

“Yes I worked with Roy, the chief marketing office of the company,” Robin boasted.

Steve flashed into a smile on hearing that. He made no eye contact. He glared at the table from time to time, as if trying to remember something. Robin was not quite sure why.

“Wow. That’s amazing. I will be reporting to Roy. How is he to work with?”

“Well, he is a decent guy. Quite good to work with. He supports you well….” Robin paused because he got distracted. This guy wasn’t let him talk with all his fiddling around.

Right in the middle of a conversation, Steve turned his attention to the ceiling. It was distracting. He then looked at the window, and then the table. Robin felt like this was a stress interview he was going through. Every time Steve asked him a question, he pretended to look somewhere else when Robin answered.

“Don’t keep shifting. Give me your attention, you are the one who asked for help,” Robin wiped the sweat on his brow and muttered under his breath.

Instinctively, he felt like he should stop. But then he told himself that this was James’s friend. He had already pretended to have a big heart, ready to help. So he continued.

“Mr Roy will give you all the freedom to operate. Generally, he will spell out his expectations upfront, but leave it to you beyond that.”

Robin stopped again. He felt thirsty and got up to get some water. He walked to the other side of the table and got a bottle.

Steve continued asking his questions neglecting Robin.

I have never seen a more self-obsessed guy, Robin mused. Let me get some water at least, he thought. What a self-absorbed jerk I am stuck with, Robin told himself. Such people don’t deserve help, he thought.

“Great. That’s good news. And how is Microsystems as a company?” Steve asked.

Robin picked up the bottle of water and took a gulp.

“Well, it’s ok,” Robin said. Enough of this help business now. I am not going to speak up. Let him keep asking. Now I will pretend as if I don’t care, Robin thought.

“Is it a good place to work in general? Does it offer good growth?” Steve continued.

“It is not bad. One sec.” Robin said. He walked towards Steve. “Do you want some water?”

“No thank you.” Steve said.

There was a moment’s silence as Robin had another gulp of water. He waited for more questions. Steve continued.

“Is it a nice place to work? Do they allow flexible work timings?” Steve asked but Robin stayed silent. “Is work from home part of the culture?”

There was an awkward silence. Robin expected that, by now, this guy Steve will get it. Just looking at Robin’s body language, it was clear that he was no longer interested. That he had lost his attention. But that didn’t happen.

Robin gave a cold reply. “Yeah, it is decent. Everything depends on your situation,” he said.

“Yeah, that’s true, of course,” agreed Steve flashing into a smile again.

“So when are you joining them?” asked Robin, changing the topic. He was now getting ready to close out the conversation. He had had enough. What arrogance and swagger, Robin thought. Constant fiddling, lack of attention and lack of basic courtesy to add, he thought. Enough of this help business, Robin decided.

“They expect me to join next week. But I will be taking a month or so.”

“Alright then. Hope my inputs helped and wish you all the best.” Robin got ready to finish. “I need to get into another meeting now.”

Robin got up from the chair and prepared to leave.

Steve got up too, and with a smile, he thanked Robin. This time Steve put his hand forward for a handshake. Robin left it hanging and left, with a sly smile.

He walked down the corridor and went back to his desk. Good riddance, he muttered. Not a world to help people, he told himself. He checked his laptop to see if he had got any email. There was nothing new. He went back to the news that he was reading before this useless meeting with this self-important guy.

***

Later in the evening, James dropped by.

“So how was it?”

“Well, it was fine. I gave him all the inputs on Microsystems he needed.”

“Ok great. Thanks a lot for your help.”

For a moment, James thought of stepping out, but then stopped.

“By the way, how did you find him?”

Robin looked at James not quite sure what to say.

For a moment, he thought he should tell James what he thought. That he found the guy haughty and that his behaviour offended him. But then, he decided against it. What’s the point? He was never going to meet him again. Why offend James for no reason? Steve was his friend after all. But the anger in his head was fresh. It was difficult to keep it under a lid.

“Well, the guy seemed ok. Microsystems has selected him, so he must be good at the job,” Robin shrugged his shoulders. “He needs to work on his focus and humility,” Robin said.

He didn’t exactly spill his heart out, but he got the message across. A corporate career of many years had made him an expert in such communication.

“Hmm. I am not surprised,” James said.

“Well, of course you know your friend well,” Robin laughed. James had an embarrassed smile on his face. Robin found James receptive and decided to be direct.

“The way he looks around and completely disregards someone whom he has asked help for. It’s atrocious, to be honest.”

James looked down to the floor as if hanging his head in shame. He twitched his lips and twisted his cheeks in what seemed like disappointment.

Robin noticed it and consoled James.

“Anyway, don’t worry. I have given him all the inputs. Unlike him, I gave him whatever attention I could,” Robin said. He thought this was enough. “By the way, how do you know him?” He asked changing the topic.

“Hmm.. He is my old classmate from school. I know him for 15 years now. He wasn’t always like this,” James confided and grew pensive.

“Yeah, well, people change with success. I have seen the humblest of people turn into high-handed jerks paying no attention to those in front of them. They neglect you as if you don’t exist.” Robin laughed off from his experience.

“Hmm. This is not the case with this guy. It is something else.” James went into some kind of deeper thought after saying that. He paused for a few seconds, and then started speaking.

“I should have told you before the meeting. But he doesn’t like it, so I held back,” James informed Robin.

“Told me what?” Robin asked, his curiosity now piqued.

“I forgot to tell you before you went in that Steve is blind. Almost.“

Robin looked up to James from his desk. He stood up disturbed with this bolt from the blue. Stunned into silence, his face lost all its colour. His eyes turned white in shock.

James continued.

“He lost his vision due to an illness over the past 5 years, and now he is 90% blind. He does not wear sunglasses or carry a stick or tell anyone,” James murmured. “His eyes look like us. But he can only make out that you are there, but nothing more than that. So he keeps guessing where you are and looks there. Or if he can’t, he turns his face elsewhere. It is awkward. But it is because he is almost blind.”

Robin did not quite know what to say. His mind went back to the meeting room. In his mind, he re-ran the sequence of events during his conversation with Steve. James patted Robin on his back getting him out of his jolted condition.

“I should have told you earlier. But I missed it completely as I got busy,” James said. Then he added, “He called me a while back. He asked me to say thanks a lot for all your help.”

Robin dropped down on his chair and stared back into his laptop screen. He tried to focus on what was on the screen but could not concentrate.

****

This story was first published on June 3rd in the Academy of the Heart and Mind, a platform for emerging writers. You can read it here.

Permission to be Mediocre

“What was his reason for not turning up today?” Jigneshbhai asked Swami as we stepped into our café after a game of badminton last weekend. One of Swami’s office mates had promised to join us a few weeks back.

“Well, he says he still needs to get better. He is practising at home. He is still not where he wants to be,” Swami replied after ordering our usual coffee and muffins.

“How will he get where he wants to be if he isn’t there where he needs to be?” Jigneshbhai asked and broke alone into a guffaw. Swami and I didn’t quite get the joke. “I meant how will he get better if he doesn’t get on to the court?” Jigneshbhai explained seeing our puzzled faces.

Swami took a sip of the coffee and replied, “Well, he is a perfectionist. Even at work, he takes a long time to finish his projects and presentations. He takes hours to write emails.”

Jigneshbhai broke into a smile again. “Well, that’s fine. But this is not work. This is play,” he explained. “Why doesn’t he get out of his own way and let himself play?”

Swami and I pondered over what Jigneshbhai had said. Honestly, I didn’t find anything odd with someone not turning up if he thinks he is not good enough to play. But Jigneshbhai had other ideas.

“Nothing starts without being mediocre first,” he started. “If you are not willing to be mediocre, you will never start anything,” he added.

“Well, I am not sure of that,” Swami said. “He doesn’t want to embarrass himself, I guess.”

“That’s the problem. We refuse to give ourselves permission to be mediocre. We worry about being judged,” he said. “When the reality is nobody is looking,” he added with a smile.

Swami and I looked at each other. Swami wasn’t fully convinced though he got the sway of what our wise friend said.

“But he wants everything to be perfect before taking a shot at it,” Swami said. “Last week he told me he was working on his backhand. This week, he said the footwork was a bit off. The week before he said the weather was a bit cold. Maybe he didn’t want to risk injury,” he added.

Jigneshbhai raised his eyebrows in a frown, shook his head and rolled his eyes. He was no badminton expert. In fact, none of us were anything but weekend amateurs. But though he didn’t know badminton, he had an uncanny understanding of people.

Then with a smile, he said, “Nothing wrong with chasing perfection. Pursuit of perfection is a worthy goal, but often masked is the fear of being judged. Someone wise said that perfect is the enemy of good enough.”

Swami and I stared at each other again. This time we seemed to be aligned with the same thoughts. We don’t let ourselves be messy. We don’t let ourselves play. We don’t let ourselves start anything where we see a chance of failure.

When we give ourselves permission to be mediocre, we try new things without worrying about the outcome. We let ourselves play with trial and error. We don’t get disappointed by mediocre results. We expect them. We are happy with them. Only we can give ourselves that permission. We don’t need it from anyone.

“When we allow ourselves to be mediocre, if anything turns out to be better than that, it becomes wonderful,” Jigneshbhai said, taking an imperfect bite into the only perfect thing we had seen – the double chocolate muffin at our café.

While Jigneshbhai enjoyed his perfect muffin, Swami and I wondered whether mediocre was really ok. Mediocre didn’t sound like an aspirational destination. I could almost sense Swami thinking how he could tell someone with pride that he was mediocre at badminton. But the truth was that all of us were mediocre, especially when we saw others play. But then I felt, at least we played while his colleague stayed at home.

It was when we were engrossed in these thoughts that the wealthy old man walked across from the adjoining table to ours. He sat next to Swami and me in silence for a few moments.

He then tapped me and Swami on the shoulder and said, “A mediocre outcome on anything that is actually done is better than a perfect outcome that is only in your imagination.”

He then took a shuttle and a racquet from Swami’s kit. He stepped out and tried to serve with all the strength in his old shoulders. The shuttle went high up in the air without moving forward and landed two feet behind him. Swami and I looked at Jigneshbhai who was smiling. He quickly moved a few steps with all his bulk, picked up the shuttle and tried to smash it, only to miss it.

With a broad grin, the wealthy old man clapped and added, “Mediocre is a happy place to be. If only we give ourselves the permission to be mediocre.”

***

Packing

Swami woke up one day after his leave was approved counting his blessings and realised that the tally did add to something that was not insubstantial by any means.

“We have each other for company first,” he told Jigneshbhai and me.

“And I have a boss like Raichand who gave me a week of leave on his own,” he said, recollecting the only positive feature of a not much-loved creature. “So now we can think about going for our break to Shridhar Mama’s farmhouse.”

“But what should we carry to the farmhouse? Food, I am certain we will need to carry, at least some of it,” he started his list. “Shridhar Mama might have a cook but I am not sure.”

“Maybe you can check with him?” Jigneshbhai teased him knowing that another encounter with Shridhar Mama was not Swami’s preference.

“This time you should call him,” Swami retorted with a wink. It was one of the rare occasions when he understood Jigneshbhai’s sarcasm.

“I need my coffee in the morning, so I will carry it. Should we take some idli batter?” Swami asked. Jigneshbhai saw the funny side of it, but Swami didn’t find anything odd with this proposition.

Among the many things towards which Jigneshbhai has a minimalistic attitude, packing was high on the list. Hence, the idea of packing all and sundry was alien to him.

“Why not carry some milk and some sambaar mix? Perhaps even the idli cooker?” He countered Swami’s proposal. This time Swami didn’t get the sarcasm. One catch in a day was enough for him, shooting his lifetime average through the roof.

“That will be too much. I don’t know if we will have a fridge there to store milk. And the cooker is too unwieldy to carry,” he rejected the claim on plain logical grounds.

“Hmmm, then what about your breakfast?” Jigneshbhai teased him further.

There are few things in life as precious as his idli sambaar breakfast for Swami. With an expression on his face that demonstrated the ultimate sacrifice that he had been called upon to make in the interest of convenience, he shrugged his shoulders and said, “Well, one can’t always get everything in life.”

Jigneshbhai and I sighed in appreciation of the great idli breakfast sacrifice by the food martyr.

“As an alternative, we can carry some cheese and bread with us, so we can have sandwiches, if we need to,” Swami found a replacement consolation for his breakfast sacrifice. Jigneshbhai and I wondered whether Shridhar Mama’s farmhouse was so deep in the middle of nowhere that we had to prepare so much. But neither of us had the wherewithal to find out.

“Alright, sounds good,” I said in agreement.

“What else? Clothes and personal stuff?” Swami meanwhile started his list.

“Yes, obviously we can’t skip that,” Jigneshbhai said.

“And maybe some cards or games?”

“Perhaps, I can carry some.”

“Maybe some books to read?”

“Not a bad idea.”

“And don’t forget music for the car journey. I have a collection.”

“Okay.”

“By the way, I need to check my car for petrol and tyres.”

“Alright.”

“Maybe I will get it serviced on Monday.”

“Perfect.”

“One more thing struck me. Should we take my driver Puttuswamy?”

“No need.”

Swami’s brain was in overdrive already. Jigneshbhai tried to get it into lower gear by his monosyllabic single word replies. But when a rocket reaches a certain escape velocity (isn’t that what they call it when they launch space missions?), then gravity cannot pull it down. It has a self-sustaining power that lets it move ahead. Swami’s packing rocket had reached that escape velocity. Jigneshbhai and I were mere observers from earth watching it fly. And he wasn’t done yet.

“And, by the way, pack the toothpaste and toothbrush and all the toiletries last,” Swami’s standard operating procedure for packing continued.

“I pack it all together and every time I wonder if I have packed it or not and then search for it everywhere. And then I realise I have packed it. And then on the day of the journey I have to unpack it again as I have to use it. And then on the journey, I wonder if I repacked it or not. And so I ask my hotel to give me a set. And finally, when I reach midway into my suitcase after a couple of days, I find it – there it is hiding all the while.”

Phew! Yesterday we got tired after Shridhar Mama’s pompous talk. And today the same talking genes in his nephew tired us again with an overdose. Swami spoke like a man who, after losing his voice, suddenly rediscovers it and realises that there’s a limited time within which to use it before it will go again.

“Okay, got it,” Jigneshbhai and I complied, and mentally made a note of packing our toothbrush last.

“And yes, I remembered,” Swami charged. “Do we need sports shoes? And an additional set of sandals?” he asked. Jigneshbhai and I twiddled our fingers.

“We don’t plan to go anywhere else,” Jigneshbhai said. He tried to evade the proposal to pack extra footwear.

“Yeah, but just in case,” Swami argued for a remote possibility.

“Alright,” Jigneshbhai said. His dream of a peaceful getaway was on pause. The nightmare of Swami pulling him for a run in sports shoes had shattered it.

“And if we carry sports shoes, then we might as well carry some badminton racquets and shuttle. There’s a lot of space at the farmhouse, I recollect,” Swami added.

One thing leads to another in packing. It is called the network multiplier effect.

“Hmm, maybe,” Jigneshbhai acquiesced with reluctance. His idea of minimalistic packing went out of the window.

“Yeah. And I am thinking of some basic medicines like pain spray or painkillers? And some basic paracetamol and tablets for indigestion?” It was fruitless to stand in the way of a packing tsunami.

Jigneshbhai and I stayed silent. “Don’t worry, I will carry them. We don’t want to end up with a sprain after a game of badminton, or an upset stomach after a sumptuous meal. Isn’t it?” Swami had thought of all possibilities. It was hard to argue against such a need. Everything seemed logical.

“Good, what else?” Swami asked.

“There’s more?” Jigneshbhai checked his uncharacteristic rising temperature.

“I guess we don’t need any warm clothes?” Swami had a doubt.

“We are going to a place three hours from Ghatembur. Not the Himalayas.” A man of tremendous patience, Jigneshbhai showed the first sign of some despair.

“Yeah, I know. We are thinking too much,” Swami said and dropped the idea. “But I am missing something,” he added.

“I am sure you will not miss anything. Except some peace,” Jigneshbhai said, this time with an irritated scowl.

But Swami’s head was on its own trip.

“Yes, now I remember. We need a camera. We need to create memories!” He said with a wave of excitement. Jigneshbhai tried to pour some cold water over it. “We have our phones for it.”

“But we are near nature. So, we need one good camera for some good shots. I will carry my DSLR,” Swami declared. It was another of his toys he had got and not used much later. “The amateur photographer feels professional with this toy,” Jigneshbhai had told me once on an earlier trip somewhere.

“And I will get one lens for a long shot and one for a closer one. Should I get my tripod? No, let it be.” Swami had his accessories also ready for packing.

“What else?” Jigneshbhai asked this time in a tone of despondency. “I am sure we are missing something else.” An air of inexplicable melancholy surrounded the normally cheerful man.

“Yeah,” Swami didn’t get the sarcasm though.

I had read somewhere that when a person gets a sudden shock to his peaceful existence, he goes through phases of denial and anger till he accepts the inevitable. I wondered where Jigneshbhai was in this cycle, currently.

“Sunglasses and caps, and a water bottle?” Swami said, snapping his fingers. Our friend had moved from warm clothes to heat protection.

“Okay,” Jigneshbhai had given up all hopes of recovery by now. It looked like he had now accepted the inevitable new reality of his life. He was back to his peaceful self after a brief phase of turbulence.

“That is it, I guess,” Swami finally relented. Jigneshbhai and I heaved a sigh of relief. With the packing out of the way, we were all set. Well, the packing turned out to be a bit more stressful than expected. But Jigneshbhai and I told ourselves that once we got there, it was going to be a few days of calm, peace, and rest. That’s what we thought. In hindsight, I can now see that we were a tad too optimistic.

***

Excerpt from “Give Me a Break”

Short or Medium?

Whether I have my haircut at the salon or at home, the first question he asks after wrapping me up is “Short or Medium?”

I haven’t been able to answer this question with confidence all these years. Earlier, I used to say ‘medium’ just to be sure he doesn’t cut it too short. But when he stopped what seemed like halfway through to me, I would insist on cutting it shorter in some region of the head.

In the later years, I started saying ‘short’ and then added, ‘but not like the army’ just to ensure he didn’t take short too seriously. Of late, I don’t have to tell him that, because he knows that if he goes too close, there won’t be much left.

I asked my wife what answer I should give him a few years back and she yelled back, “Tell him whatever you want, but don’t cut it too short.” It didn’t help me a lot. After that, I started answering his question with a non-committal, “whatever you like.”

I should wait for a few more years, after which I am guessing that this question won’t arise.

Another question he asks is whether you would like it “straight” or “curved”  at the back. What difference does it make, I always wonder. I reply based on what my mood is.

Sometimes, he asks, “Scissor or machine?” Again I wonder what difference it makes.

When I had a bigger crop of hair, I used to say scissor. Now I say machine. I think it should have been the other way around. But at that time, I worried if the machine would get rid of my hair. And now, I wonder if the scissor would take too long.

A few years back, he used to ask if machine or razor should be used for the side locks. Nowadays, that question is not asked, but the question of how long the side locks should be arises.

I don’t answer short or medium for it. I simply point out with my finger till where I want the locks to be. Then he spends a couple of minutes shifting from left to right and then back to the left to ensure that they are equal in size. I close my eyes and let him do his job.

One question that he has started asking in the last few years while the hair cut is on is if I would like a hair colour. It is more a rhetoric as in don’t you want a colour? I generally reply in the negative after which he often tells me about the increasing grey vegetation on my head. In the face of my indifference, he asks if I need at least a head massage, implying that I must be a really stingy customer to settle for only a haircut. Sometimes, I oblige, based on my mood.

But haircuts haven’t remained simple. The next question arises. What oil do you want for the head massage?

I have never had any preference, so deciding between an almond or a coconut or a cool oil hasn’t been easy. I asked my wife once what I should answer. She said, “Anything is ok, but don’t come back with a smelly head.”

It gave me a solid basis for a choice. But I realised it was impractical as it was embarrassing to ask the barber to get the oil bottles closer to me so I could smell them before he used one of them. I started telling him to use whatever he preferred and stuck to that the next time as it didn’t smell.

Earlier they used to send me back with an oily head, but nowadays they give it a wash, which has made my choice of oil irrelevant. I have to move to another chair for the wash, and thankfully, have to answer no more questions till a careful drying and combing is done. After that, I am free to leave. No more questions to answer.

How much? is the only question I get to ask. He has a ready answer in the form of the bill. Over the years, that number has kept growing bigger with all the addons. The compensatory development, if you may call it one, is that I have to get a haircut now only once every 90 days instead of the earlier 45 days. But whenever I sit on that chair, I still can’t confidently answer whether I want my hair short or medium.

***

A Second Chance

This story was first published in the May 2021 issue of Potato Soup Journal, a platform that brings storytellers and readers together. You can read it here.

The rhythm and movement of the truck in which they had put my cage made it difficult for me to read the headlines of the newspaper lying outside. I tried hard to concentrate and finally read it.

“Leopard spotted in apartment complex,” it said, and it had my photo next to it. I had appeared in the papers. It was news from one week back. I gave a roar on reading it, happy to see myself get famous. The security guard sitting next to my cage woke up. I neglected him.

“A leopard in the city always makes news,” I mused remembering my past. “Tomorrow’s headlines will be ‘Leopard captured and released in forest’,” I remarked.

The security guard glared at me. I wondered if he could hear me. I roared back at him with all the ferocity I could gather in my eyes. He did not get perturbed. This was the first human I had seen who did not move back on hearing my roar. I looked at him closely and then looked away.

“I got a week here before they got me. Next time, I will do my work only in the night, so that I get more time here,” I spoke to myself, seeing the newspaper. “Well, better luck to me next time, keep trying,” I wished myself with a roar and decided to take a nap till the truck reached the forest.

“What work do you do only in the night?” I heard back just as I closed my eyes. It was the security guard outside my cage speaking. It took me a while to realise it.

I was startled. I had never spoken to another human. At least for the last two years.

“What work do you do in the night?” he asked again. I was sure it was he who was speaking now.

“I can.. umm.. hear you. Eh.. can you hear me?” I roared in my most humane, least ferocious voice.

“Yes, I very much can. I can hear you and I can understand you clearly,” he confirmed. I was elated.

That is how I chanced upon my friend. An unexpected human who became friends with an unexpected leopard in the city. We could hear each other and talk to each other, and in that journey from the city to the forest, our lives got a second chance.

This is my story. Rather, this is our story.

**

“So you really can hear me?” I doubly reconfirmed. I did not want to end up tricked. I knew humans were capable of doing that. Who better than I would know that?

“Yes, I can. Speak up. What work do you do?” the security guard asked again. For a moment, I hesitated fearing that he won’t believe me. I feared that it would give me needless heartache. But given that someone could hear me, I had no choice but to trust him. I decided to take a chance. I went ahead with my feline instincts which told me I had nothing to lose.

“Well, before you understand what work I do, you should know who I am,” I said. I stepped back to give him some background. I knew he won’t believe my story unless I gave ample proof.

“I can see who you are. You are a leopard. Not a cheetah, not a jaguar, but a true-blue spotted leopard. I know the difference in the species,” the security guard said.

I decided to clarify that this was not about identifying my exact species in the cat family.

“Well, don’t go by looks. Looks are deceptive. In my case, they truly are. Because though I look like a leopard, I was not always a leopard,” I said, pausing to assess his reaction. He seemed fairly stable, so I continued. “Three years back I was a human,” I revealed.

The security guard might have felt I was on drugs, if leopards can be. But I knew I wasn’t. What I said was true. He stood up from his chair and walked around. I thought he was checking me out. I had four legs and a tail and everything else that a leopard has. My spots were real, I felt like telling him.

“A human being?” he asked. “As in, you were a man?” he repeated with an overwhelming expression of surprise. His eyeballs looked like they were falling out of their sockets. At the same time, he looked glad to have known my secret, as he had this mixed expression of shock and awe.

“Yes, I was a man. A full grown, married man,” I confirmed. As if that weren’t proof enough, I gave him more information that could convince him that I was indeed one. “I had bought a flat in this very apartment complex,” I told him.

The security guard stood up again from his chair. “You had bought a flat too in this complex? In the one in whose CCTV I spotted you? The one where I work?” he asked, still overawed perhaps.

“Yes, that very one. I used to be a proud owner there,” I said. “A spacious three-bedroom hall kitchen apartment on the eighth floor with a pool-facing balcony. It also had three bathrooms and a separate washing area. I booked it at a good price too, when it was under construction,” I told him all the details of my acquired possession.

With all these details, he was now convinced that I must have been human. He knew that a leopard in the forest, who was only a leopard all his life wouldn’t know such meaningless details, generally useless to leopards. Moreover, I would not be gloating over them like I did if I had not lived a human life earlier. That was well and truly proof for him that I was originally human.

“So then, what happened? How did you end up like this?” the security guard asked in all eagerness.

My mind went back to that fateful week in my life, two years back.

“Well, it so happened that like many humans, our family had a religious guru. He told my parents that for the house-warming ceremony he needed some fruit that was only available in the forest. In fact, he insisted that without that fruit, the ceremony was meaningless,” I told him.

“A special fruit?” he asked. I wondered why it was so surprising for him, despite being human.

“Yes, apparently it was an auspicious fruit. I am sorry to say but only humans can believe this kind of stuff,” I said. He nodded in delight, agreeing with me about the fallacies of his own species.

“I realised that all fruits are the same only after becoming a leopard. You know I was a vegetarian when human, so for a few days, I found it difficult to eat when I became a leopard. I survived on fruits even as a leopard till I realised it was not good for my digestion,” I said, remembering my forced conversion to non-vegetarian food after taking up a leopard’s body.

“Oh, that’s really sad to know. Food really matters, you know,” he said, feeling sorry for my predicament. “So what about that special, auspicious fruit?” the security guard quickly guided me out of my rambling back to the topic.

“Well, yes – the fruit, the root of my problems. Well, I was human and so I believed the guru and took up his request seriously,” I said, going back to my story.

“So then, did you get the fruit?” he asked.

“Hmm.. The problem was that while the forest was close to this apartment, there was a man-eating leopard in that forest,” I continued with my narration.

“Ahaa.. A man-eating leopard?” the security guard asked, with almost a sneer.

“Yes.. he was a famous one, rather a notorious one, on the edge of the forest. And so, me and my wife didn’t want to go. By the way, both of us were supposed to go, as per the custom,” I informed the security guard.

“So, why did you go?” he asked.

“Well, there was a solution that the religious guru had for that too,” I continued with a twinkle in my eye and a smile if ever there was something like that a leopard might be capable of.

“A solution? What kind of solution?” he asked, in all earnest, eager to know.

“He gave us two types of powders in two small boxes,” I began.

“He said if I saw the leopard, I should eat the first powder and I will become a bigger leopard myself. Then I could fight with the maneater and finish him off. After that, it was simple. I just had to eat the second powder and get back to being a human,” I explained.

Now, saying I was a human who became a leopard was one thing. But saying that some magical powder was responsible for this conversion business was another. The security guard’s forehead widened by twelve inches and his eyebrows took over the remaining part of his head.

“Two types of powders? To convert you to a leopard and back? Is there anything like this? Sounds like he was pulling a fast one,” he said.

Well, I don’t blame him. No one in his right senses would have believed this. And even if it were true, how should I tell him that I now realise that I was foolish to take a chance with it?

“So you actually believed that he had two such powders and went ahead?” he asked.

“Well, I initially refused. But everyone was so keen that we get the fruit that we had no other option. They wouldn’t let us enter our flat till we got the fruit,” I explained, remembering that fateful week.

“So you went?” he asked again, eager to know what happened next.

“Yes, I did. In fact, we did. Me and my wife went to the forest and got the fruit. But as luck would have it, that was the last I saw of her,” I said, with tears in my eyes, recollecting that fateful day.

“Oh, so sorry to… umm.. hear about your loss. Sad.. But what.. err.. exactly happened? Why did you lose her?” the security guard asked.

My mind went back to that evening as I remembered the exact happenings.

“We knew the way to that fruit tree and walked there. We reached the tree, but lo and behold, I saw the man-eating leopard right in front of us,” the human in me shuddered at the recollection.

“I told my wife to give me the first box of powder and hold on to the second. On eating it, I became a leopard instantly as the guru had promised. The man-eater was surprised with another leopard cropping out of nowhere. I had a fierce fight with him. It lasted for a gruelling thirty minutes in which I came up trumps and he went away, probably giving up. I never saw him after that,” I explained, triumphantly banging my fist on the cage grill.

The security guard was glued on to my story, listening with a rare focus till then. He shifted in his seat. His face turned sad hearing my tragic story. He got up and encircled my cage again to let some steam, perhaps. He didn’t ask me anything further and kept listening. I continued with my story.

“That leopard ran away injured, and I returned to my wife. I thought the job was done. I had plucked the fruit too. I was happy. It was just a matter of taking the second powder now,” I said.

“Oh, okay, so didn’t you return?” the security guard asked me.

“Sadly, no. On seeing me coming back, my wife was so petrified that she started running away. She thought the man-eater was back. She couldn’t make out that it was me. I kept shouting that this is me, your husband, and not the other leopard, but she didn’t hear any of that.”

“Eventually, she started running, but sadly, little did she realise that she had no chance racing with a leopard. I tried to catch up with her, to hold her back. Sadly, little did I realise that I wasn’t a human anymore. I was a leopard,” I welled up at that memory taking a pause and a deep breath.

“Oh, so then didn’t you catch up with her?” the security guard asked wistfully.

“Well, I caught up in a jiffy. But in the heat of the moment, my paws, claws, jaws, and teeth landed on her neck and clutched her tight,” I said. My voice choked. “She died on the spot. By mistake I had killed her.” I went silent remembering the saddest day of my life and broke down.

The security guard put his hand on my head through the grills of my cage and tried to calm me down. When I looked up at him, for the first time, I saw genuine affection in the eyes of a human being for a leopard.

“I am so sorry to hear that,” he said. “What happened after that?” he asked.

“Well, as if losing her wasn’t enough, I couldn’t find the second powder,” I continued narrating my tragic tale. “It had probably spilled in the run and the tussle. I searched for it everywhere, but I couldn’t find it. So I lost my wife and my human form on the same day,” I said.

“Oh, I see,” the security guard’s tone and expression changed a wee bit. But I continued.

“I left my wife’s body as I couldn’t bear to see her like that. I realised I couldn’t go to the city, and so went back to the forest. Since then, I have been searching for that powder,” I told the security guard.

“Oh..ho! So that’s why you came to the city? To this apartment? To get the second powder? That’s the work in the night you do?” he asked me, connecting the dots in a flash. Someone had realised at last why I came to the city.

“Yes, I looked for my family, and that religious guru, who gave us the powders. But I haven’t found him, nor I have I found anyone else,” I opened up my heart to my new friend.

“Oh, everything is clear to me now. I get it,” my friend jumped up in joy. “I will search for that guru too, for your sake, when you are away in the forest this time,” he assured me.

“Thank you dear friend,” I gave my heartfelt thanks to my human friend who had listened to my story. “I know no one will believe my story, but it is one hundred percent true,” I reassured him.

But he didn’t need any reassurance. I got a sense that he didn’t doubt it.

“I believe it. I am certain it is true. In fact, I know that it is true,” he said in a rare conviction that I hadn’t seen in anyone, least of all in humans.

“Thank you sir,” I said with the folded hands of a leopard. “You are the only one who believed me. In fact, you are the only one who can hear me. You are the only one who can help me. Please.. help,” I pleaded. Never before must a leopard have fallen at the feet of a human in this manner.

He held me by my hands and calmed me down. “You don’t worry. I will look for that religious guru from today itself. Helping you is like helping myself,” he said. That left me scratching my head.

“It is like helping yourself? That is gracious. Why do you say so?” I asked him this time.

“Well, that’s because….umm..,” he said with some hesitation. “Err…how do I say this? I am wondering… umm.. if you will like it,” he stuttered.

“Don’t worry. Feel free.. No need to hesitate.. I am fine,” I patted his hand through the cage.

“Well, because… now that you told me your story, some things in my life are also clear to me,” he said. “I have been wondering if I will get a second chance.. You have given me that,” he said emphatically. I couldn’t quite get what he meant.

“I am sorry I didn’t understand,” I said.

“Well, bear with me.. but after you went away from your dead wife, something else happened that you don’t know,” he started. I was all ears. “How should I say this…. I ..umm.. came back.. and.. err.. ate your wife. And now I think, I probably, ate her along with the second powder,” he said.

I got up on all fours on hearing that. “You ate my wife?” I howled in alarm.

“Yes.. I am sorry, but I was the man-eating leopard then,” he confessed apologetically. “All these days, I had been wondering how I became a man after eating a female human. Now I know. I became the human and realised I had no option but to come to the city.”

He looked at me and if I had any hair on my head, I am sure they were standing all ends up.

“I need the first powder now as much as you need the second powder,” he said.

As the quirk of our fates dawned upon me, I was initially disturbed and angry. But once the opportunity of a second chance dawned upon me, I was elated on seeing a true fellow being.

A wave of exuberance filled my heart, despite our acrimonious pasts. I was sure that my days as a leopard were numbered. He was equally sure that his days as a human were limited too.

My currently human friend released me back into the forest. I was certain that pretty soon, our roles would reverse again, and I would do the same to him. I promised him that I would be back in a couple of weeks. Life had given us a second chance.

***

A Second Chance: Short Story published in Potato Soup Journal

This story was first published in the May 2021 issue of Potato Soup Journal, a platform that brings storytellers and readers together. You can read it here.

The rhythm and movement of the truck in which they had put my cage made it difficult for me to read the headlines of the newspaper lying outside. I tried hard to concentrate and finally read it.

“Leopard spotted in apartment complex,” it said, and it had my photo next to it. I had appeared in the papers. It was news from one week back. I gave a roar on reading it, happy to see myself get famous. The security guard sitting next to my cage woke up. I neglected him.

“A leopard in the city always makes news,” I mused remembering my past. “Tomorrow’s headlines will be ‘Leopard captured and released in forest’,” I remarked.

The security guard glared at me. I wondered if he could hear me. I roared back at him with all the ferocity I could gather in my eyes. He did not get perturbed. This was the first human I had seen who did not move back on hearing my roar. I looked at him closely and then looked away.

“I got a week here before they got me. Next time, I will do my work only in the night, so that I get more time here,” I spoke to myself, seeing the newspaper. “Well, better luck to me next time, keep trying,” I wished myself with a roar and decided to take a nap till the truck reached the forest.

“What work do you do only in the night?” I heard back just as I closed my eyes. It was the security guard outside my cage speaking. It took me a while to realise it.

I was startled. I had never spoken to another human. At least for the last two years.

“What work do you do in the night?” he asked again. I was sure it was he who was speaking now.

“I can.. umm.. hear you. Eh.. can you hear me?” I roared in my most humane, least ferocious voice.

“Yes, I very much can. I can hear you and I can understand you clearly,” he confirmed. I was elated.

That is how I chanced upon my friend. An unexpected human who became friends with an unexpected leopard in the city. We could hear each other and talk to each other, and in that journey from the city to the forest, our lives got a second chance.

This is my story. Rather, this is our story.

**

“So you really can hear me?” I doubly reconfirmed. I did not want to end up tricked. I knew humans were capable of doing that. Who better than I would know that?

“Yes, I can. Speak up. What work do you do?” the security guard asked again. For a moment, I hesitated fearing that he won’t believe me. I feared that it would give me needless heartache. But given that someone could hear me, I had no choice but to trust him. I decided to take a chance. I went ahead with my feline instincts which told me I had nothing to lose.

“Well, before you understand what work I do, you should know who I am,” I said. I stepped back to give him some background. I knew he won’t believe my story unless I gave ample proof.

“I can see who you are. You are a leopard. Not a cheetah, not a jaguar, but a true-blue spotted leopard. I know the difference in the species,” the security guard said.

I decided to clarify that this was not about identifying my exact species in the cat family.

“Well, don’t go by looks. Looks are deceptive. In my case, they truly are. Because though I look like a leopard, I was not always a leopard,” I said, pausing to assess his reaction. He seemed fairly stable, so I continued. “Three years back I was a human,” I revealed.

The security guard might have felt I was on drugs, if leopards can be. But I knew I wasn’t. What I said was true. He stood up from his chair and walked around. I thought he was checking me out. I had four legs and a tail and everything else that a leopard has. My spots were real, I felt like telling him.

“A human being?” he asked. “As in, you were a man?” he repeated with an overwhelming expression of surprise. His eyeballs looked like they were falling out of their sockets. At the same time, he looked glad to have known my secret, as he had this mixed expression of shock and awe.

“Yes, I was a man. A full grown, married man,” I confirmed. As if that weren’t proof enough, I gave him more information that could convince him that I was indeed one. “I had bought a flat in this very apartment complex,” I told him.

The security guard stood up again from his chair. “You had bought a flat too in this complex? In the one in whose CCTV I spotted you? The one where I work?” he asked, still overawed perhaps.

“Yes, that very one. I used to be a proud owner there,” I said. “A spacious three-bedroom hall kitchen apartment on the eighth floor with a pool-facing balcony. It also had three bathrooms and a separate washing area. I booked it at a good price too, when it was under construction,” I told him all the details of my acquired possession.

With all these details, he was now convinced that I must have been human. He knew that a leopard in the forest, who was only a leopard all his life wouldn’t know such meaningless details, generally useless to leopards. Moreover, I would not be gloating over them like I did if I had not lived a human life earlier. That was well and truly proof for him that I was originally human.

“So then, what happened? How did you end up like this?” the security guard asked in all eagerness.

My mind went back to that fateful week in my life, two years back.

“Well, it so happened that like many humans, our family had a religious guru. He told my parents that for the house-warming ceremony he needed some fruit that was only available in the forest. In fact, he insisted that without that fruit, the ceremony was meaningless,” I told him.

“A special fruit?” he asked. I wondered why it was so surprising for him, despite being human.

“Yes, apparently it was an auspicious fruit. I am sorry to say but only humans can believe this kind of stuff,” I said. He nodded in delight, agreeing with me about the fallacies of his own species.

“I realised that all fruits are the same only after becoming a leopard. You know I was a vegetarian when human, so for a few days, I found it difficult to eat when I became a leopard. I survived on fruits even as a leopard till I realised it was not good for my digestion,” I said, remembering my forced conversion to non-vegetarian food after taking up a leopard’s body.

“Oh, that’s really sad to know. Food really matters, you know,” he said, feeling sorry for my predicament. “So what about that special, auspicious fruit?” the security guard quickly guided me out of my rambling back to the topic.

“Well, yes – the fruit, the root of my problems. Well, I was human and so I believed the guru and took up his request seriously,” I said, going back to my story.

“So then, did you get the fruit?” he asked.

“Hmm.. The problem was that while the forest was close to this apartment, there was a man-eating leopard in that forest,” I continued with my narration.

“Ahaa.. A man-eating leopard?” the security guard asked, with almost a sneer.

“Yes.. he was a famous one, rather a notorious one, on the edge of the forest. And so, me and my wife didn’t want to go. By the way, both of us were supposed to go, as per the custom,” I informed the security guard.

“So, why did you go?” he asked.

“Well, there was a solution that the religious guru had for that too,” I continued with a twinkle in my eye and a smile if ever there was something like that a leopard might be capable of.

“A solution? What kind of solution?” he asked, in all earnest, eager to know.

“He gave us two types of powders in two small boxes,” I began.

“He said if I saw the leopard, I should eat the first powder and I will become a bigger leopard myself. Then I could fight with the maneater and finish him off. After that, it was simple. I just had to eat the second powder and get back to being a human,” I explained.

Now, saying I was a human who became a leopard was one thing. But saying that some magical powder was responsible for this conversion business was another. The security guard’s forehead widened by twelve inches and his eyebrows took over the remaining part of his head.

“Two types of powders? To convert you to a leopard and back? Is there anything like this? Sounds like he was pulling a fast one,” he said.

Well, I don’t blame him. No one in his right senses would have believed this. And even if it were true, how should I tell him that I now realise that I was foolish to take a chance with it?

“So you actually believed that he had two such powders and went ahead?” he asked.

“Well, I initially refused. But everyone was so keen that we get the fruit that we had no other option. They wouldn’t let us enter our flat till we got the fruit,” I explained, remembering that fateful week.

“So you went?” he asked again, eager to know what happened next.

“Yes, I did. In fact, we did. Me and my wife went to the forest and got the fruit. But as luck would have it, that was the last I saw of her,” I said, with tears in my eyes, recollecting that fateful day.

“Oh, so sorry to… umm.. hear about your loss. Sad.. But what.. err.. exactly happened? Why did you lose her?” the security guard asked.

My mind went back to that evening as I remembered the exact happenings.

“We knew the way to that fruit tree and walked there. We reached the tree, but lo and behold, I saw the man-eating leopard right in front of us,” the human in me shuddered at the recollection.

“I told my wife to give me the first box of powder and hold on to the second. On eating it, I became a leopard instantly as the guru had promised. The man-eater was surprised with another leopard cropping out of nowhere. I had a fierce fight with him. It lasted for a gruelling thirty minutes in which I came up trumps and he went away, probably giving up. I never saw him after that,” I explained, triumphantly banging my fist on the cage grill.

The security guard was glued on to my story, listening with a rare focus till then. He shifted in his seat. His face turned sad hearing my tragic story. He got up and encircled my cage again to let some steam, perhaps. He didn’t ask me anything further and kept listening. I continued with my story.

“That leopard ran away injured, and I returned to my wife. I thought the job was done. I had plucked the fruit too. I was happy. It was just a matter of taking the second powder now,” I said.

“Oh, okay, so didn’t you return?” the security guard asked me.

“Sadly, no. On seeing me coming back, my wife was so petrified that she started running away. She thought the man-eater was back. She couldn’t make out that it was me. I kept shouting that this is me, your husband, and not the other leopard, but she didn’t hear any of that.”

“Eventually, she started running, but sadly, little did she realise that she had no chance racing with a leopard. I tried to catch up with her, to hold her back. Sadly, little did I realise that I wasn’t a human anymore. I was a leopard,” I welled up at that memory taking a pause and a deep breath.

“Oh, so then didn’t you catch up with her?” the security guard asked wistfully.

“Well, I caught up in a jiffy. But in the heat of the moment, my paws, claws, jaws, and teeth landed on her neck and clutched her tight,” I said. My voice choked. “She died on the spot. By mistake I had killed her.” I went silent remembering the saddest day of my life and broke down.

The security guard put his hand on my head through the grills of my cage and tried to calm me down. When I looked up at him, for the first time, I saw genuine affection in the eyes of a human being for a leopard.

“I am so sorry to hear that,” he said. “What happened after that?” he asked.

“Well, as if losing her wasn’t enough, I couldn’t find the second powder,” I continued narrating my tragic tale. “It had probably spilled in the run and the tussle. I searched for it everywhere, but I couldn’t find it. So I lost my wife and my human form on the same day,” I said.

“Oh, I see,” the security guard’s tone and expression changed a wee bit. But I continued.

“I left my wife’s body as I couldn’t bear to see her like that. I realised I couldn’t go to the city, and so went back to the forest. Since then, I have been searching for that powder,” I told the security guard.

“Oh..ho! So that’s why you came to the city? To this apartment? To get the second powder? That’s the work in the night you do?” he asked me, connecting the dots in a flash. Someone had realised at last why I came to the city.

“Yes, I looked for my family, and that religious guru, who gave us the powders. But I haven’t found him, nor I have I found anyone else,” I opened up my heart to my new friend.

“Oh, everything is clear to me now. I get it,” my friend jumped up in joy. “I will search for that guru too, for your sake, when you are away in the forest this time,” he assured me.

“Thank you dear friend,” I gave my heartfelt thanks to my human friend who had listened to my story. “I know no one will believe my story, but it is one hundred percent true,” I reassured him.

But he didn’t need any reassurance. I got a sense that he didn’t doubt it.

“I believe it. I am certain it is true. In fact, I know that it is true,” he said in a rare conviction that I hadn’t seen in anyone, least of all in humans.

“Thank you sir,” I said with the folded hands of a leopard. “You are the only one who believed me. In fact, you are the only one who can hear me. You are the only one who can help me. Please.. help,” I pleaded. Never before must a leopard have fallen at the feet of a human in this manner.

He held me by my hands and calmed me down. “You don’t worry. I will look for that religious guru from today itself. Helping you is like helping myself,” he said. That left me scratching my head.

“It is like helping yourself? That is gracious. Why do you say so?” I asked him this time.

“Well, that’s because….umm..,” he said with some hesitation. “Err…how do I say this? I am wondering… umm.. if you will like it,” he stuttered.

“Don’t worry. Feel free.. No need to hesitate.. I am fine,” I patted his hand through the cage.

“Well, because… now that you told me your story, some things in my life are also clear to me,” he said. “I have been wondering if I will get a second chance.. You have given me that,” he said emphatically. I couldn’t quite get what he meant.

“I am sorry I didn’t understand,” I said.

“Well, bear with me.. but after you went away from your dead wife, something else happened that you don’t know,” he started. I was all ears. “How should I say this…. I ..umm.. came back.. and.. err.. ate your wife. And now I think, I probably, ate her along with the second powder,” he said.

I got up on all fours on hearing that. “You ate my wife?” I howled in alarm.

“Yes.. I am sorry, but I was the man-eating leopard then,” he confessed apologetically. “All these days, I had been wondering how I became a man after eating a female human. Now I know. I became the human and realised I had no option but to come to the city.”

He looked at me and if I had any hair on my head, I am sure they were standing all ends up.

“I need the first powder now as much as you need the second powder,” he said.

As the quirk of our fates dawned upon me, I was initially disturbed and angry. But once the opportunity of a second chance dawned upon me, I was elated on seeing a true fellow being.

A wave of exuberance filled my heart, despite our acrimonious pasts. I was sure that my days as a leopard were numbered. He was equally sure that his days as a human were limited too.

My currently human friend released me back into the forest. I was certain that pretty soon, our roles would reverse again, and I would do the same to him. I promised him that I would be back in a couple of weeks. Life had given us a second chance.

***

Police Security

“I am going to apply for police security,” he announced. Jigneshbhai and I almost spilled our coffee in surprise. After his recent experience at the cinema where he had got into an unnecessary brawl with the man in the seat in front of him, Swami was convinced that society had become a dangerous place.

Swami took us to the police station near his house and met the clerk there.

“I want to apply for police security. I have reason to believe that my life is in danger,” he told the clerk.

The clerk gave him a bored look and, to our surprise, opened a form book and started writing.

“Which category?” He asked.

“I don’t know. Z? Or Y? Or should it be X?” Swami replied.

“That we will decide. You are which category?” The police clerk asked.

“Category? What are the options?” was Swami’s puzzled answer.

“Are you a politician? Or a businessman?”

“No, I am neither a politician nor a businessman.”

“So, you are a film star or a sport star?”

“No, I have never acted. Nor am I very sporty. Though recently I started playing badminton for fitness.”

“Ok, so you are into real estate?”

“No sir, I never owned anything other than my house. That too on home loan.”

“Then which category are you?”

“Oh, I am none of these. Actually, I am a normal working person.”

The clerk started wondering where we had come from. He noted none of the above somewhere on the form. Jigneshbhai was enjoying the fun. He winked at me.

“So, are you receiving threats from someone?”

“Yes sir, a few days back I received a threat.”

“Ok. From the underworld? Or local gangsters?”

“No sir. Why I will receive threats from underworld? Plus, I don’t know any local gangsters. Why will they call me?”

“To extort money. Why else?”

“No sir. I don’t have that much money.”

“Then why are you receiving threats?”

“I received a verbal threat. They said they will beat me up.”

“Ok, so it is an assault threat case.” The clerk noted and continued asking more questions.

“Why assault threat? Due to business transaction dispute?”

“No sir. I told you I am not a businessman.”

“Then due to personal enmity or family love affairs?”

“No Sir, I am married and happy, I don’t have any enemies,” Swami smiled and looked at us.

“Then why are you getting assault threats?”

“Because I spilled his popcorn.”

The clerk looked up from his form wondering what this is about.

“Popcorn?”

“Yes sir, popcorn. And also some Pepsi.”

The clerk gave Swami a quaint look. He seemed to be thinking whether Swami was normal. Swami continued though.

“He didn’t stand for the national anthem. So, I nudged him. Or you could say I kicked him.” Swami finally clarified the events leading up to his need for police security. The clerk seemed satisfied with this explanation for now.

“Personal rivalry,” the clerk started writing on the form.

“Sir, it’s not personal rivalry. I don’t know him.”

The clerk now stopped writing and finally stood up.

“You are a normal working person. You have no personal rivalry. You are getting threats from someone who you don’t know. And he is threatening you because you spilled his popcorn and Pepsi.”

“That’s an excellent summary, Sir” Swami said, with a broad smile on his face. “One more detail that you missed Sir. I spilled his popcorn because I kicked his chair when he didn’t stand for the national anthem.”

The clerk thought about the situation. He had never come across such a request for security before.  Jigneshbhai thought that given the situation, it was amazing that the clerk was calm. Even he had much to learn from the clerk, Jigneshbhai thought.

Swami waited with patience for the clerk to take next steps. But the situation perplexed the clerk. The clerk was about to say something but stopped. He probably saw no point. This was a hopeless case.

Swami decided to take the initiative. “If you can give me one police constable, I can take him with me in my car,” he added, to break the silence.

This seemed to have been the final nail in the coffin. The clerk then made his decision.

“I am not sending any police constable. You don’t fall under any security category. The police doesn’t provide security to normal people with no enemies. Go home and if you meet the man, call this number,” he said, pointing to the police station’s number.

Swami tried to plead his case. But the clerk said “Next?”

***

Measuring What Matters

“You can slice and dice your data to come up with hidden insights,” boasted Swami while sipping his coffee the other day. He had come to the café straight from his office after a meeting with one of the data vendors.

“Raichand was impressed,” he continued, talking about how the vendor presentations had made a positive impact on his boss.

“Based on this, he is going to set goals for everyone,” Swami’s tone now turned to worry. “Utilisation by practice, sales by solution, attrition by manager and many more such measures.”

Jigneshbhai listened to all the corporate jargon. While he had never worked in a traditional job, he had some insights on them thanks to Swami and his constant cries for help. He broke into a smile when Swami explained the updates from his meeting.

“Nice measures. What will you do with them?” He asked.

Swami scratched his chin. So far he had only seen the measures and, like his boss, had been impressed by them. He hadn’t thought about what he will do with them, though he was worried that Raichand will do something with them.

“I guess we will track them on a regular basis,” he poohed.

“Monthly?” Jigneshbhai wondered.

“Maybe weekly too. With these measures in Raichand’s hand, you can never say. He may even track daily, God forbid. You know how he is,” Swami pondered aloud with a pensive look. A sudden realisation of the imminent dangers hit him. His enthusiasm waned from the levels it had been since he came.

“And then?” Jigneshbhai asked further.

“And then what?” Swami posed a counter question.

“After tracking?” Jigneshbhai clarified.

“Well after tracking? Err..,” Swami fumbled and paused. “Someone will follow up. We will have meetings to discuss status,” he said.

“As in?” Jigneshbhai probed with a wink in his eye.

“Well as in, why they are not on target,” Swami said. And then with a sly look, he added, “And Raichand will beat up everyone on the measures.”

“No wonder he was impressed. It gives him something to do that he loves,” Jigneshbhai remarked with a twinkle in his eye.

Swami and I looked at each other. Swami wondered if his joy after the impressive vendor presentation was a misplaced bout of happiness. It was definitely short-lived.

Jigneshbhai focused back on drinking his coffee. For a change, he also bit into Swami’s favourite double chocolate muffin, while we were lost in thought.

Swami was the first to speak, as always. He started this time with a question. Or a rhetorical one, so to speak.

“But we have to measure something, isn’t it?” he said.

“Yes, something. Not that these are not important though,” Jigneshbhai looked up from the muffin and remarked. “But these are not all that matter. Like this muffin and its measures.”

Swami and I were bewildered. Jigneshbhai has this silly habit of getting frivolous stuff into serious topics. Like he got this petty muffin into the serious matter of corporate performance measures. Swami didn’t receive this side-tracking well.

“What’s this muffin got to do with Raichand and his measures?” Swami enquired in an agitated tone.

“Look here,” Jigneshbhai picked up the muffin’s packaging silently, and pointed to something. He twitched his eyes and read out from the small print.

“236 calories, carbohydrate 18 g, protein 2 g, fat 5 g. Contains added flavours, cocoa, edible oil…etc. And there’s a list of stuff here,” he said.

“That’s all the ingredients and their measures,” Swami said. “It’s important.”

“Yes, of course,” Jigneshbhai nodded in agreement. “But not a word on taste,” he added. “Why? Because it can’t be measured.”

Swami and I glanced at the package and broke into a smile.

“And the taste is what really matters,” Jigneshbhai said. “Do you really care about the slicing and dicing?” he asked.

For once, all three of us agreed on that.

“Well, that’s true. But unless you have all the ingredients in the right proportion, will the taste be right?” Swami asked.

Jigneshbhai and I looked at each other. I thought Swami had a point, and perhaps, stumped Jigneshbhai this time. But I was wrong, as I soon found out.

“Well, you are right. But taste is different for different people, isn’t it? What is good taste for one isn’t good for another. So even with the right ingredients, all you measure is consistency of taste. Not whether the taste is good,” Jigneshbhai said. Swami and I couldn’t beat Jigneshbhai on logic, for sure.

“That’s because, in reality, taste cannot be measured. It can only be experienced,” he added.

Swami and I looked at each other and wondered if anyone could come up with a taste-o-meter to solve our problems. Maybe Raichand will put them in his measures if it is invented.

“So are you saying Raichand shouldn’t measure?” Swami asked.

“Well, I didn’t say that. But in measuring the ingredients, he ends up spoiling the taste,” Jigneshbhai said, and started munching his muffin.

That’s when I noticed that Deja started barking from the adjoining table. Swami quickly got a pen and paper from the waiter and jotted down what he said.

“We measure matter,

Because matter can be measured.

But matter is not all that matters,

Because what matters cannot be measured.”

Swami and I pondered over it while Jigneshbhai smiled biting back into his muffin.

Happiness comes from what cannot be measured and that’s what really matters.

***

I am just a Facebook post

I am a Facebook post with 26000 likes and 1972 comments. And I almost forgot, 223 shares.

Words and photos don’t count for much nowadays. They were a big deal in the olden days when every word written or spoken meant something. Every photo was looked at, in depth.

Look at me. I have a meaningless photograph of a famous actor sleeping. I wonder if any such photo would have interested anyone a few years back. That photo has some 3-4 words with it. Those words are “sleeping time, good night world.” That’s it. That is how I came into being. But that photo and words are the reason for my likes and comments and shares. That’s the reason I got famous.

Most of the time after I was created, I don’t do anything. I just laze around waiting for someone to notice me. I got lucky. Someone noticed me and liked me. And he also put some comment that, in my view, was a combination of stupid and intelligent. But I take the good with the bad. Mostly bad.

It was a comment that said, ‘if you are sleeping, who clicked the photo and created this post?’ Valid question. Like most beings, even I don’t know how I was created and where I came from, especially if my creator, the man in the picture, was really sleeping. But it doesn’t matter.

That comment got me some 500 likes and loves and laughs and what not. There are various ways in which people can express their emotions about me. Some of them may be well meaning. Most of them are fake and momentary. But they increase my popularity, however fleeting it might be.

Then someone added another comment about the health benefits of a good night’s sleep. Someone else argued against it. Someone said that the man in the picture has been sleeping through the year and not contributing to the country. All of these comments added to my life span. I got a real life.

Many of my brothers and sisters aren’t that lucky. As I said, I got lucky. And those types of comments led to 311 replies, and more than 250 comments, which themselves got liked and loved and laughed at. So I created a family of comments, likes, replies of my own. Not to forget the shares.

Many ‘take rest’ comments, ‘have a good night’s sleep’ replies, ‘sweet dreams’ and so on added to my growing dynasty. Now me and my extended family have a life of its own.

That’s how I got here. But despite all the fame and wealth of likes that I got, when I think about who I really am, I sometimes get into an existential crisis.

I am just a bunch of words, after all. A whole lot of mostly repetitive, mostly inane, and mostly useless words. If you counted them all, they could add up to the length of a short story.

How did I get here? How long will I be here waiting for someone to notice me? How long will I live here? Does anybody really care about me? I don’t know. I know of some in my clan who have so many words that they would add up to being as big as a novel. They have a somewhat longer life. But even they face the same questions.

That’s how life is for me and my clan. I have a few friends who live even lesser than me. Some who don’t even have a life, because they don’t get noticed. Some cousins live longer, like comments on YouTube videos which are called viral. They are real stars.

It all depends on our creator, I guess. And then it depends on who notices us, whether we are in the right place at the right time or not. Some of my friends are memes and stickers who have an even shorter life. That’s how it is. Life is like that.

But after all, what else can I expect? After all, I am just a Facebook post. But don’t get me wrong. I am not complaining. I am a thriving Facebook post. From the time I started this note till now, I am now a Facebook post with 27000 likes and 2500 comments and 290 shares.

And my creator is sleeping still, pun intended. It is nowhere close to morning! Life is good till then.

***

Aryan: Short Story published in Ariel Chart Journal

This story “Aryan” was published by Ariel Chart International Literary Journal in their May 2021 issue. Ariel Chart is a journal of short fiction and poetry read in 59 countries. You can also read “Aryan” on their site at this link here.

The boy shivered on my sofa when he heard it. I was relieved. It was time for him to go.

His mother had called him for lunch. “Aryan, Aryan,” she howled repeatedly.

“Bye,” he said and ran downstairs to his house. 

Aryan came to my house around 11 AM the next day. This had become a daily routine now.

“I had my bath and breakfast early today,” he said.

He pushed me aside and sat on the sofa. I closed the door tweaking my lips at another morning of unsolicited childcare. He rang the doorbell four days back for the first time. I don’t know why. I didn’t know him, and he didn’t know me. He just rang the bell and barged in with a smile. I don’t know why and what it was, but I couldn’t tell him not to disturb me. Then he kept coming every day.

Not that I had much to be disturbed about. I had left my job a few months back and was trying a few things working for myself. The pandemic had confined me to my home, and some company, albeit of a 10-year-old boy, wasn’t all that bad. He probably realised it and so, kept coming.

 “Some tea or coffee for you?” I asked him from the kitchen, thinking of having a late breakfast.

“You don’t have any juices?” he asked opening my fridge and checking. “Lots of beer, eh?” he smiled and picked up a can.

“That’s not for you,” I instantly pulled it from his hand and kept it back.

“I know, I know,” the smart-ass replied. “Get apple juice next time,” he said and banged the fridge door closed.

“Slow, buddy, it costs money,” I warned him. He twisted his mouth and said, “Whatever.”

“What’s the latest you have seen on Netflix?” he asked, switching on the TV in the living room.

“Don’t you have school, buddy?” I asked him.

“Online classes,” he replied. “I am in class. At home,” he added with a wink.

I rolled my eyes and wondered if his parents knew about it.

“Don’t judge me, they know,” he said instantly, as if reading my mind.

Here was one smart boy, I thought. I got my breakfast and gave him some snacks from the cabinet.

“You live alone?” he asked. I thought of nodding but didn’t reply. “No girlfriends?” he persisted. I turned my face away and focused on my food. He found something else to turn his attention to.

“You can remove your mask if you want; if you want to eat those snacks,” I told him. “You are at home and I am sitting at a distance.”

He tightened his mask with his hands and said, “I don’t want to eat. I had my breakfast.” Then he looked at me and added, “Masks are good.”

I shrugged my shoulders. “Of course, they are good. I thought just in case.”

He sat silently watching me eat for a few minutes. He fiddled with the newspaper and magazines. He switched off the TV. In the silence, we heard a sound of vessels falling from downstairs.

“How many times should I tell you not to make noise?” we heard a man’s voice. “I am in a meeting.”

“Are you the only one who is busy? As if I have no work!” a woman shouted back.

“Will you please shut up now?” the man howled back.

“No, my voice is like that. And this is my house, not your office,” the woman yelled.

There was a loud bang of a door shutting close after that. Some muffled voices continued.

“There they go again,” Aryan smiled at me. “Today, they started early in the day.”

I shifted in my seat with slight unease and continued eating my breakfast.

“Do you want something to read?” I asked him. He shook his head.

“You don’t have office?” he asked. I pointed him to my desk in the room inside.

He went in the room, closer to my MacBook. He examined the various books on the desk. There was a guitar next to it. A bicycle. Sports shoes near the wheel. Some photographs of the Himalayas.

“That’s your office?” he asked, and I nodded. “What do you do?” he wondered.

“Many things,” I replied. “I have a travel company, I trek, I write, I do some music, among other things,” I said.

He had a frown on his face. He stared at me. “Is that a job?” he asked. “No one travels in the pandemic,” he remarked. “I don’t think you have a job.”

I didn’t have an answer for him. I didn’t want to answer. Before he could get any further on my nerves, I pushed him outside the room. “Ok, my office will start now. You sit outside,” I said.

But after about thirty minutes, I couldn’t let him sit alone in the living room. So I stepped outside.

The boy had dozed off on the sofa. “Hey Aryan, why are you sleeping in the day?” I asked but he did not respond. I let him sleep and carried on with my work.

At least I was spared of looking after him for a while, I thought. I completed a few more calls and wrote a couple of pages. When I came out, I found him awake.

“You had a good nap?” I asked.

He looked at me surprised, and said, “No, I wasn’t sleeping.”

“Didn’t you have a good night’s sleep?” I persisted.

“No, umm… I mean Yes. I wasn’t sleeping. I was studying,” he insisted.

He gave me an impish smile. I let it be and asked him if he wanted anything to play.

“No, I have this,” he replied, showing me his Rubik’s cube.

“You like that?” I asked him. Before he could reply, we heard some loud voices again.

“Where is Aryan?” I heard a man’s voice demanding.

“Isn’t he your son? Or is your job only to attend meetings?” the woman shouted back.

“I ask a simple question, and you start a fight,” the man yelled. “There’s no point talking to you.”

“In any case, you don’t talk to me,” the woman said. “Go talk to your boss, she must be waiting.”

“What is this nonsense?” the man shouted.

Again I heard a door banging close. Aryan looked at me and shrugged his shoulders.

“Does this happen every day?” I asked him this time after some silent moments, with my mouth crunched and one eyebrow raised this time.

“Well…umm..,” he replied, tweaking his mouth. “I think I should go back,” he looked away.

“No, you can stay a bit longer, if you want,” I reassured him. It was almost lunch time. “You can have lunch with me. I can order something you like,” I told him.

I thought that will make him feel better. And make me feel better too.

“I can’t have food outside,” he replied.

Before I could say anything further, a loud sound interrupted us. “Aryan, Aryan,” we heard his mother’s voice. It was more like she was howling for him. I wasn’t sure she knew where he was. She seemed like yelling in all directions. “Aryan, come home for lunch,” I heard a few times.

“I think I should head back,” he said. I nodded, saying, “Take care.”

“Do you have some water?” he asked. I went into the kitchen to get him a glass of water.

He removed his mask and had his fill. That’s when I noticed that his cheeks were red with a recent injury. I noticed a swollen cheek bone. He had a slight cut over his lips as well.

“What’s that? Did you get hurt while playing?” I asked him.

He fumbled with the glass in his hand on hearing my question and wore his mask again in a hurry.

“No,.. err.. what? ..umm.. no,” he said.

“Then what happened?” I asked.

“I fell in the bathroom,” he answered, and added, “today morning,” winking at me as he left.

I waited for the doorbell to ring the next morning, but it didn’t.

***