Shomprakash Sinha Roy's Blog, page 3

The Missing Sleuth

I’m convinced that a notable percentage of my readership feels intrigued in the presence of a good, old fashioned mystery piece.

And honestly speaking, which literary fanatic didn’t think of penning down the next detective bestseller? We’ve all been fans of Sherlock, Pradosh Mitter, Poirot, The Hardy Boys, The Famous Five- when it was about solving crimes. Maybe it was the instinctive hatred of criminals fed through a constant diet of moral soup- or otherwise, we all felt attached to it. It was hard to put down a mystery masterpiece! And the genre has effortlessly transformed into sleek soap operas that now dominate prime time television in the west. It probably started with all the hype being directed towards forensic experts (Think: CSI, The X Files) but lately, the focus has shifted back to the original levels of consulting detectives.

The modern adaptation of Sir Doyle’s “Sherlock” by BBC One and the overwhelming success of “Castle” indicates that the time is just about right to introduce someone new, introduce someone in the Indian Literary Scene with enough deduction skills to solve murder mysteries in the blink of an eye. Someone who is equipped with the new age abilities of neurolinguistic programming, some one who has spent his fair share of time in the gutter- and emerges as a high functioning brainiac.

Should it be a cop? Should it be someone who is associated with the judiciary functions of this nation? Should it be a lawyer/judge? But then again, we don’t want to replicate what has already been done and won.

We need something new. Maybe even a female protagonist. How soon a mystery can weave itself down, remains to be seen- Watch this space.

And by the way,

The Cross Cultural Anthology featuring “Three Days in a Week” by myself- will be available at the Pageturners Bookstore, M.G. Road, Bangalore soon. See you there!

 

Love,

Shom

The Thing about September

Three years and three months back- I was on a train that was taking me away from Bangalore. Thanks to a horrible dean and some creatively unsatisfying choices, I had been banished from this kingdom of free will.

As much as the reasons for my erstwhile exile from this city are important, they’re not essential to the flow of the narrative about September. The train that connects  Bangalore to Nagpur has a lot of intermediate stoppages. It’s an extremely tiring route- also pretty long, and covers almost a distance that many people  do not get to travel in a lifetime. That fact still didn’t give me any solace back then; I was leaving Bangalore. More importantly, I was leaving her behind me.

she.

Aboard the train, my thoughts revolved primarily about her reaction to the news of me having been taken away from this city. I tried not to focus on the blaring music through my headphones. I tried not to think about how many weeks or months would run by, before i would get to suckle on a cigarette. I tried to push my thoughts away from my friends, my city- everything that life stood for. I tried really hard, but I couldn’t get her out of my head. She just wouldn’t move.

In times of trouble, we humans tend to look around for inspiration- like hungry eagles, scouting around a forsaken graveyard for traces of rotten flesh. We have a raw, natural tendency to look at a beggar and tell ourselves that we’re better off; We look at a really happy family and we tell ourselves that we can get there.

Optimism keeps us alive.

In such moments of optimism, We often try to let go of our emotions- We release a leash that we had carefully woven around ourselves, to keep our souls free from envy, anger and hatred. We tend to embrace despair. We try to tell ourselves that the pain was meant to be there. We try to focus on statements like “What doesn’t kill us only makes us stronger”.

We try to watch movies like “Shawshank Redemption” and read books like “A Prisoner of Birth” to keep ourselves strong. We think of lines like “Hope is a good thing. And a good thing never dies”.

I did all of that. Perhaps, a little more than i can recall now.

But what struck me deep down, as i boarded the train- was the fact that I was still Eighteen. I had lost nothing in life so far. I had one thing and one very crucial thing at that, to my advantage. Time.

I think it was July when this was happening, and as i sat on the train, the thought of losing what was essentially the “love” of my life didn’t make me shed a single teardrop. The sight of a crippled man weighing his chances of making money on a hot afternoon couldn’t budge me. The picturesque landscape of Bangalore city flying past me through the window; into an indefinite timewarp; didn’t bother me at all.

I focused on the song that started playing next, and I had tears. Real, wet ones. But i was happy when i was crying.

It was that track by Greenday.

“Summer has come and passed

The innocent can never last

Wake me up, When September Ends”.

Smoke Rings, Old Songs & Drops

                   

Dear Creature,

September never came,

Like they said it would.

They sang about it, even made me think.

They made me believe that you would return

That i would get back

To my world of Tears, and Smiles, and Smoke.

But it didn’t happen.

 

I left the windows open on my darkest night

And hoped that you would shine a light

However damned I might be, I was sure that you could see

That my days wouldn’t turn.

 

The smoke that i loved so much

The very same that made me survive

That made me pull through the hardest times

Did not show me your face.

 

I suspect it had something to do

With those cursed air filters

That held you back, held back your smell

And I couldn’t tell

If i was looking at you or just another shadow.

 

And now it’s the Nineteenth of June

again, And my heart sings that tune,

It flows just as the stream below, it bends..

Wake me up when September ends.

 

The steps of my demon

Back in 2009, the minimum fare for riding in an autorickshaw in Bangalore city used to be fourteen rupees. That’s seven per kilometre, and to me, the concept seemed to be pretty clear. If you couldn’t walk two kilometres, you deserved to pay extra. In that time, I used to weigh a lot less than today, not because I was into any kind of sport or fitness fad, but more so due to the constant exposure to less nutritious food, nicotine and a strange affinity towards grain liquor. All said and done, the weight scales used to indicate a favourable BMI whenever I had the spare five rupees to spend on a stand-up unit.

The lack of any kind of schedule or routine pretty much made up for my intolerance towards any kind of extra expenditure. The fact that I had a girlfriend, whom I was supposed to meet every other day, didn’t seem to make much of a difference. I was a resident at the boys hostel of PES School of Engineering at Electronic City; a distant spot on the map of this garden city. The transport authorities of Bangalore had created a wonderful system for people like us, who had the burden of distant regular travel on their shoulders, all for the sake of leisure. It seems ironic now, but back then, the oblivion that surrounded me (thanks to the lovely lady who will enjoy the privilege of being unnamed in this story) often overrode my desire to be happy (read: peaceful).

Nevertheless, the oh-so-efficient BMTC travel routes could only contribute to cover about 90% of the distance between my college and her place. She used to stay in Kumaraswamy layout, not unlike a majority of other students who had the luxury of studying at Dayanand Sagar Institute. The closest bus stop to her address, was and still remains Banshankari, and in 2009, Bus route number 600K had been the one miracle missing from my life previously. (Of course it seemed that way, doesn’t it always?)  I enjoyed the convenience of boarding the above mentioned bus just outside my college gate, and occasionally had to go through the trouble of walking to Konappana-Agrahara, the bus stop immediately preceding my college. It would take me through the dusty length of Hosur Road, turn left at the Central Silk Board junction, and head straight towards Banshankari. The journey would invariably last between half an hour to forty five minutes, post which I would find myself surrounded by what seemed like a tourist spot for anyone who had anything to sell without a trader’s license.  Don’t get me wrong, I don’t despise people who sell stuff on the streets; but after spending  45 conscious minutes lost in thought about the last hundred rupees I had managed to save (scrape) over the week, I really didn’t like the idea of giving that away to… let’s just say ‘someone in need’. And that never made me feel bad about myself. In retrospect, I wasn’t earning back then, and anything comparable to a decent amount of pocket money was insufficient for my eighteen year old self, who had just been introduced to the awful pleasures of alcohol, smoking and intercourse (I don’t know why I used this particular word to describe the so called act of making love, it just seems valid now).

So here I was, in the midst of a busy bus station, sans the well-organized building that occupies Banshankari now. No, back then it used to be a single shed which was mostly occupied by bus conductors, all of whom looked like they’d just returned from Vietnam. And the newly created stall for apple juice wasn’t there either. So I could choose to survive on a dry throat, go for a tender coconut at seven rupees, or light up another cigarette (ITC Kings used to retail at four bucks).

The date, 23rd April, told me all that I needed to know, in order to make a good decision. I still had seven days to finish off the month, and I needed all the money I could save. I decided to walk.

Right then, the smallest and least significant of all things happened to me. I say that now, but at the time it seemed like a true challenge to my very purpose of existence. An obscure, lowly component of society (flinch now, but that’s what you call them deep down), approached me with the familiar sound of clapping hands. A eunuch, funnily clad in a green saree and sporting a thin tuft of hair that she (?) passed off as a ponytail; started taking what evidently appeared to be bold steps in my direction. I knew this was about money, with the certainty of a rabbit that’s being chased by a lion in the jungle, who knows it’s about life. To me, my money was my life, or at the very least, everything that life represented at the moment. I had already done some mental math to calculate that I would pay fourteen rupees to take an auto to Kumaraswamy layout, and my only other expense for the day would be my return fare aboard the 600K bus moving back towards Electronic City. The fact that I would be left with more than fifty rupees for the week was the only inspiration that could generate a smile on my face when I would meet my girlfriend. So, the potential threat of losing any amount of that money to (again, let’s just say) ‘someone in need’ seemed less than pleasing.

I don’t know why, but I’ve always been scared of eunuchs. To clarify, I have nothing against the species, I know they’re humans, but for some unknown reason, the neatly combed thick brows and smug smiles would frighten me beyond my wits. I suspect it may have something to do with a movie trailer I had seen as a kid (I can vaguely recreate the image of the ever-versatile actor Ashutosh Rana with his tongue sticking out like a snake. Sadly I don’t remember the name of the movie. Long live Bollywood!)

All that momentum, combined with my pledge to secure the last bit of cash in my pocket drove me to make a run for it. Now here’s the thing about crowded places. You think you can escape whenever you feel like, but in reality, you can never get out, not unless you’re the guest of honour at a club or something. And when I think about it now, maybe the laws of the creator, mixed up in some unpleasant way with Darwin’s theories about survival, dictate that the oppressed members of society will have the maximum amount of physical agility in any given civilization. And this theory of mine is way too much evident in our society. Beggars and thieves can run really fast. I guess that’s how we have chosen to adapt ourselves into this ‘natural’ habitat of ours.

Once I realized I was cornered, I had no choice but to take out my wallet to look for signs of loose change. And as many wise men (and women, of course) will tell you, your last choice will often turn out to be the biggest mistake of your day. The decision to expose my battered wallet proved to be an extremely foolish one, and before I knew it, my nemesis clad in green had swooped in to snatch the hundred rupee note. Then, in an almost divine gesture, she (?) placed her hand on my head and started mumbling something that sounded like a blessing. I was repulsed, and shook her hand off my hair. In a dumb moment, I spat on the ground and made my way out. I was overwhelmed with the sorrow of having lost my last hundred rupee note. As I started walking away, I looked at the person who now had my money, and she seemed to celebrate. That aggravated me all the more. But being a loner thrown into a crowd of likeminded people, I knew it was pointless to retaliate. I started walking. I remember taking a lot of steps, angry steps.

It took me twenty minutes to cover the distance between the bus-stop and Kumaraswamy layout. Luckily, at the gate of Dayanand Sagar Institute, I stumbled upon my friend Lakshit, who was more than happy (seemed that way then, I’ll never know if that’s the case) to lend me hundred bucks for my rendezvous with the girl of my dreams (Ha! I know you sniggered).

My conversation with her consisted mostly of me making up a believable excuse for being late. No self-respecting almost-adult man would confess to being broke, especially not to a girl he intended to sleep with over the weekend. And after she went back home, I eventually found another way of saving some more cash. I ended up freeloading at a friend’s place, so that he would drop me off to Electronic City next morning in the bike his father had bought him.

The ‘relationship’ didn’t really last long, and although I was adamant not to believe in this statement, it probably ended soon because of the state of my finances back then. It’s amazing how money can change so many things. I mean sure, it isn’t supposed to buy ‘happiness’ and a lot of other stuff, but it really does a good job of keeping a fellow sane. So we dive three years into the future.

(A lot of stuff happened between then and now, but all that really isn’t important to the benefit of this narrative, so we’ll skip that. Let’s suffice to say that I went through some disastrous times and eventually found myself in a comfortable position. Luck? Probably.)

Its 2012 now, I work for a multinational corporation that provides an extremely comfortable mode of transport and takes me from my doorstep, right to my workplace and drops me back. And like most of my contemporary IT professionals, I’ve managed to buy a vehicle that caught my fancy. It isn’t much when I compare it to everything that I’ve dreamt of, but it’s a good bike. And the 220 CC Engine compensates for most of my daily disappointments.

The night in question happened to be one that involved celebration, accompanied naturally by a lot of liquor. And these days it’s almost always rum. I haven’t been able to explain my departure from grain liquor. In the words of my friends, Gin and Vodka just don’t ‘cut’ it anymore. It had fallen upon me to buy a bottle of Old Monk rum from the nearest Wine shop at Banshankari. (I now stay at Banshankari, surprise?) I moved my double wheeled companion from its resting place and started riding towards the main road. At the red traffic signal, I stopped before making a free left turn. In that little amount of buffer time between my thoughts, out of the corner of my eye, I spotted the same green saree and the same smug smile. It’s probably my imagination, but the smile had faded a little bit. My hand involuntarily moved to my rear pocket, to feel my wallet, safely in my pocket. The love for my wallet has probably grown exponentially since 2009. Lack of money has been replaced with surplus money, plastic money, and some more types of money. Compelled by an unknown thought, I prepared to take out the new shining leather wallet and maybe shell out a couple of tens and twenties.

The light turned green right then, and the object of my obscure fears, started walking down the right side of the road. As I turned left, I noticed the steps she (?) took. Angry, angry steps.

Five games and a Structure (Unrelated)

Does anger really cause long term health problems? Because if it doesn’t, then I can’t think of a better tool to get your goals and priorities in the right places. I may not admit it in my conversations with my father, and I may not consider it to be the best topic of discussion when I’m trying to talk my way into an inspiring huddle. But the fact remains, I have never witnessed something more powerful than true anger, when it’s about clearing out your own self.

I’m not trying to re-enact a Sith-Lord propaganda here, and like billions of other fans, I too appreciate the subtle hint of peace and love hidden under “The force” in all of Lucas’s ventures. But at the same time, I also believe that if properly channeled, your anger can make you do things you couldn’t do in a million years or more. It’s easy to understand why a song with the lyrics “Saada Haq” turns into an anthem for the Indian youth. The message is loud and clear. You just want to reclaim what’s yours. It happens when someone tries to stop you from doing the dearest thing in your life. Could be something very huge, like a passion, or could be something as small as a habit.

It doesn’t matter.  Whether you’re angry because someone won’t let you sing, or because they won’t let you smoke, you’re nevertheless angry at the authority that exerts itself. On other occasions, you may be angry towards the nonchalant attitude of a certain peer group that refuses to acknowledge your beliefs. Your anger starts breeding in some deep-seething corner inside your head and pushes you to start planning your steps. True, it may stem from a darker emotion. But it begins there.

Where it takes you, is totally your call.

Walking those seven miles

March has always given me a lot to think about, every year in my life. It tends to do these weird things for me, that keep me brooding for the rest of the year. Why only last year, I had moved in to the house i currently occupy, and since then, the place has witnessed a lot of bizarre things. What i would most fondly recall among these ‘things’ are the funny dreams I’ve had so far. This house, apart from all the space and comfort it offered, is a hot place. I mean, the mercury just keeps rising. And when you’re shomprakash, you dont tend to get up before 11 AM. And you’re covered in sweat when  you do.

So, those sweaty naps usually churned out some valuable visual slidesl Ones that i’ve often tried to incorporate into what i write about. Be it a dream about discovering a fingerprint reader in one of the most sensual places on earth, or just revisiting the old Banshankari roads , circa 2008/09, i have relived all of that. And now finally, last Thursday, i found myself facing some good amount of decisions, about leaving this place, moving back to Banshankari and those old gullies, returning to the lifestyle of a layout in Bangalore. and I’m pretty optimistic about it. It’ supposed to be a good thing, this change. Sure, I’ll miss the memories i gathered here in Ejipura. But as always, I’m sure i did something new in this last one year.

Banshankari, I will see your three and raise you four.

Lucifer out.