Game, Set, Match

“There’s a wee little bit of badminton in everything.” he observed sagely, twirling that expensive looking racquet in his hand, watching the game in progress “And a wee little bit in everyone too”. She didn’t seem to be paying attention, because such insight should ideally have incited violence. “It’s a game of lessons.” he went on, now calmly tossing that racquet from one hand to the other. “And I’ve heard it’s a whole lot more bearable if you try to shut the fuck up.” she finally offered. Anybody else would have taken the hint, but he was purposefully impervious to sarcasm.

“Arey, wah, sarcasm? But you’ll probably have to try a lot harder, nahin?” his smile did little but to bring him only closer to getting a kick in the shins. She had nearly perfected that move, a swift kick to the shins, or a sharp pinch between the shoulders. The kicks hurt a lot more than he might have anticipated, and the pinches a lot less than she would have preferred. “See, now, badminton is about banter too. Every retort begets another.” he said, just as a careless volley is smashed into the court. “Yeah, but sometimes that happens too.” she said, and kicked him in the shins.

While he hopped about for what couldn’t all have been mock pain, she picked up his racquet and went on ahead to join the next game. With nobody to drive up the wall anymore, he sat down to watch her play. He couldn’t have expected her to be as good as she turned out to be. Brilliant, he thought, though if her forehand were any more peculiar, she should just have to be left-handed. A push is played close to the net, and she had to sprint across the court’s length and breadth in an insane diagonal of zigs and zags to make the lift that just couldn’t really have been lifted.

Wah, he said to himself inside his head. “Crap!” he said out aloud in a staged whisper. She might not have really intended to, though one can never quite be sure to fathom the machinations of the female brain, but somehow her next return turned quite perpendicularly; the shuttle rushed at him upwards of hundred klicks to the hour and whacked him in the face surer than a slap. Usually the shuttles don’t tend to mostly hurt very much, but he certainly seemed to be struggling to keep his face straight. “Sorry!” she manages to mention most unconvincingly as her partner scurried over to fetch the projectile.

Possibly concerned for his own wellbeing, he walked around to the other end of the court, paying his attentions instead to her opponents now. About to lose that game rather comprehensively, she must have decided to fight back; the shuttle should’ve been groaning from the sudden onslaught by the end of the next serve, and her opponents didn’t quite appear to be entirely pleased with the possibility of having to play faster, harder, and altogether better than they already were. Not that they were contesting for anything quite tangible - but a friendly is never really a friendly.

3-7. She looked at her partner, silently despairing for a miracle. And yet the serve breaks instead. Now she looked like she just wanted to punch her partner. She served. Serve breaks and changes. If she was disappointed, she wasn’t doing a darned splendid job of not being very visual about it. 7-3. Some peculiarly graphic expletives thrown towards no particular direction, so 8-3. Then 9-3. Not many moments later, Game-3. She looked at the shuttle during it’s descent, swung suddenly, missed it quite completely, and brought his racquet crashing down. He watched the racquet introduce itself to the ground with a sickening crunch that couldn't be confused for a cordial greeting, and with due respect to the fundamentals of physics, respond to the cold-concrete's interaction by very effectively crumpling into itself. He smiled weakly, his shins didn't seem to be hurting so much anymore anyhow.

By:

Sarthak Prakash

For A Piece Of Pi

“It should finish somewhere, nahin?” he asked himself, not quite aware that she was standing not very many feet behind him. The lone window seemed resolute to pour as much light as should be possible into that dark and deprived room, but those four squares of soft sunlight that could have been are stopped short at the panes covered in patches of black linen. He was scribbling furiously at the corner of one wall, numbers that didn’t seem confined to pattern or purpose. “It should.”

“But what if it doesn’t finish here? You know like in this room, in this life. What if it needs more space to be written on, what if it needs more time to be written in?” she asked him, as she opened a small cupboard near the door, pulling out two smallish glasses and a decanter that looked like it had been around for a lot longer than either of them. He watched her pour the liquid amber in the two glasses generously. “Though what it really needs, I think, is more people to be written by.”

“Thank you.” he said as she handed him one of the glasses. They sipped in silence, staring at that abomination of a wall before them. To her, the numbers were a formidable opponent, demanding from him the time that was rightfully only hers. To him, though he couldn’t tell yet, the numbers were a formidable opponent as well, demanding a sense of pattern and a sense of purpose that he couldn’t quite put down into words. “Let’s get another marker, we still have three more walls.”

“I’ll start from this end, see? You start from your usual top-left corner. We’ll run into each other somewhere near the middle, move down by a bit, and then start writing back towards the edges.” she suggested, but he was already atop the chair, starting with the first scribble in his own corner. There was this muted tension churning in the air around him, and she could almost imagine those numbers were being pulled right out from there. “Oh, but also, why exactly are we doing this?”

“Because it should finish somewhere.” he muttered, and then stopped writing, the marker’s tip at the wall in silent introspection, and the room suddenly a little more silent than usually. She could tell her question had been received, and that a suitable response was being processed as well. But what worried her was how the marker’s tip never strayed from that point on the wall right there. “These numbers, they start at a definite point. So why can’t they end somewhere as well, see?”

“No, I am afraid I don’t. But don’t let that bother you. We’ll finish these walls, we’ll cover every last darned inch-squared. Then we’ll get very drunk, plastered even. And then, before either of us has to start slurring, you can tell me about the numbers.” he smiled a weak smile, and the marker was writing even before he had fully turned away to face the wall. She sighed softly, and decided she would need another drink before she started. “Would you like some liquid motivation too?”

“22 over 7.” he said, and kept looking at her while she tinkered with the glasses and the decanter at the other end of the room. The room around her was dark and stuffy, and two walls covered in bright green scribbles adding very little to the already challenged décor. The numbers did start at a very definite point, at a very specific digit. 3. This was followed by a monumental fullstop, and from there, numbers that didn’t seem confined to pattern or purpose. “Make it a double please.”

By:

Sarthak Prakash

A Man Dead Inside Me

Into that Battle of Blades, I had rushed without taking heed; 
Behind me few followed, and before me my smiling enemy. 
I will not be the first to depart, I will not be the last to bleed; 
Many shall have to die, before I have a man dead inside me. 

Archers welcome my charge, their strings tight and taut too; 
The arrows shall pierce armours, and we’re lesser suddenly. 
Another volley is prepared, strings pulled and arrows put to; 
But not before I break the ranks, with a man dead inside me. 

They can’t shoot arrows at a man standing amidst them, no; 
Not that they shouldn’t try, but my steed shall never still be. 
My mare run, my sword sweep, my enemy’s blood to flow; 
I would not cease now, and neither the man dead inside me. 

The pike and javelin advances, they seem to cheerfully nod; 
In wild thrusts and stabs, they expected to find their victory. 
A spear looks me in the eye, then throws full might that rod; 
But his is not the claim to make, to that man dead inside me. 

The infantry came out to greet us, we exchange pleasantries; 
Each man would call out to his god, his flag, and his family. 
And then comes the onslaught, the collision of these armies; 
I close my eyes momentarily, to see the man dead inside me. 

There he stands in the distance, his armour shining so bright; 
A blade in the scabbard, with another right through his body. 
I suppose I should know now, that this shall be my last fight; 
And I opened my eyes, but I still see the man dead inside me. 

My army withers away, and my men have breathed their last; 
I stand alone with the enemy, and their swords crying hungry. 
Kill me now, I wish to tell these men, but do not kill me fast; 
And in the slow strokes of steel, I have a man dead inside me. 

By: 
Sarthak Prakash

The Time Traveler’s Fail-Safe

He wouldn't have noticed her, but for her hair. Her hair had a very distinct smell, like lemons and strawberries and cheese and a lot of everything that could smell as nice. He looked up, and found her staring at him very intently, and at the desk he was in the process of so convincingly destroying.

“Erm, dear, what in fuck’s name are you doing? And why does it have to involve murdering my antique mahogany desk? You know we love that desk, don't you?” she asked him, very patiently.

“We do? No, I mean, of course we do. But don't worry about the desk, antiques are a thing of the past now.” he mumbled, and continued writing on the desk with what looked a lot like her purple permanent marker. She was very slightly glad he didn't use the fluorescent green, but that wasn't quite helping the desk, not with the purple epsilons scribbled across the aged mahogany.

She decided she would wait for him to finish - the desk was quite beyond saving anyhow, and she was sure she didn't love the desk as much as she thought she did - she struck a match against the hard granite wall, and as the flame flickers, slowly brings it to the cigarette dangling between her lips.

He noticed another smell interfering with all the lemons and the strawberries and the camembert, so he held his breath until the longing should pass. He had promised himself he wouldn't smoke for eight months, and at eight weeks, he was still going strong. “Are we nearly done yet?” she asked, crushing the last few drags into an ashtray. “I hope so, though I have a feeling that e might not be as close to c-squared as I would have liked.” he was mumbling again, but she couldn't hold back the temptation, “Good god, what do we do?” “I suppose we'll just have to ask Einstein.”

She smiled at him, a soft smile twisted at one end, the kind he liked to keep looking at, and want to stop completely and utterly ruining the desk, maybe. He had convinced himself that this smile was utterly and completely his own, and he was right. She gave this smile to no one else but him.

“And we could get you another desk, yes, what period is this? Looks like late Victorian, though I wouldn't trust myself. Wish you could come along and pick one out. Although hauling it through time and space is going to be an absolute bitch, especially those parts with space.” he might have been talking to that desk, but she knew he was saying he would be gone again, and that he should be back in time for dinner if he knew what's good for him, and he could bring another absolutely horrid desk with him if he felt like the trouble. He's never had any taste for fine furniture.

A moment later, and he wasn't there. Technically, he wasn't quite then either, but that's the thing about time-travel, you can never belong. Not to time, nor space. You just find a person to hold onto you in the present, so that you can always find your way back. The time-traveler's fail-safe smiled softly.

By:

Sarthak Prakash

AND IT ALWAYS DOES RAIN

When the winds whine, and the clouds could cry;
The skies burst forth, and I admit, I never will try.
For when the heavens pour, ever often and again;
I do hate it when it does, and it always does rain.

That seeing is believing, to believe is to have seen;
Mine eyes claim an audience, to all that has been.
And yet, sight found lacking, ever often and again;
I barely would see it does, and it always does rain.

To unsuspecting ears mine, silence shall be denied;
Symphony for thunder, lightening interludes beside.
And even while such is audible, ever often and again;
I could refuse to hear it does, and it always does rain.

As the drops would claim, but, the genuinely fated;
When thirst be quenched, and the starved be sated.
A taste that should then linger, ever often and again;
I never would admit it does, and it always does rain.

For twilight dripping, beyond the confines of repair;
That smell of rain, and the drops which should dare.
A stench, that hardly would be, ever often and again;
I pretend it does not ever, and it always does rain.

Moist creeps within, and, the without was drenched;
In gasps of humid pleasure, graces will be wrenched.
To touch that sense of liquid, ever often and again;
I rarely should feel it does, and it always does rain.

That the elements were soaked, and then, so was I;
For the sake of mine truth, will choose to instead lie.
To inspire, and to conspire, ever often and again;
I would hope it never does, and it always does rain.


By :
Sarthak Prakash

Little Boy And Fat Man

A title as funny as they’re made, if you ask me. But the fun stops right here. These are the names of the first and only nuclear weapons to have ever been employed. During the Second World War, Japan was proving to be troublesome for the US of A. Their industry blooming rapidly, a remarkably effective work-force, and uniquely efficient-work ethics; this should actually be a matter of surprise, that the people of the rising sun were targeted even as late as they were. Japan wasn't quite aware of the fact, but they were to soon meet the Little Boy and the Fat Man.
They are a proud people, the Japanese are, even considering how most would have very willingly gutted themselves rather than be humiliated, in a ritual now mercifully obsolete. During what was very soon to be an overture to the conclusion of the Second World War, the Allied Forces met at the Potsdam Conference to decide how to suitably administer the most fitting punishment to Nazi Germany, then having surrendered only recently.
Japan, however, refused to accept the terms and conditions as established at Potsdam, and this was considered political sacrilege by the Allies, so they decided to deliver a lesson to the effect of what might have seemed like tactical international diplomacy.

August 6, 1945 – the citizens of Hiroshima wake up to the white man’s version of a home made apocalypse. An army plane bizarrely named Enola Gay drops a nuclear fission-type bomb, with the blast equivalent to about 13000 metric tons of TNT. Around 12 square kilometres of the city was destroyed, and nearly 80000 people killed immediately. In the years to follow, many more would succumb to their injuries and to the radiation, by 1950 this figure would be totalled at about 200000.
August 9, 1945 – the citizens of Nagasaki have been mourning the losses in Hiroshima as the last nuclear bomb to be ever dropped flies towards their city. The blast is equivalent to about 21000 metric tons of TNT. The city is shielded from the worst of the blast by the hills surrounding the hypocentre, and yet, about 40000 people died immediately. Just as many succumb in the following years, bringing the total nearer to 80000.
September 2, 1945 – Japan surrenders to the Allied Forces. This marks the official end of the second and last World War.

Sixty four years since, and very few have been able to justify the attacks on Japan. Which shouldn’t be any different, no one deserves to justify nuclear war. Soon after the tragedy, a memorial was constructed for the victims and survivors. The words inscribed on one of the sculptures urge the victims to rest in peace, for the mistake shall not be repeated.
Tragically, ever since the incident bombs with quite more than 40 times the capacity have been designed and stocked. Particular nations still expect to be ruling the roost, and all by the potential support of their nuclear arsenals. Treaties have been signed, promises made and broken – but the fear and the excess that comes with nuclear warfare is still alive.
I can only hope, and for the better of a society we have to live in, that the mistake will not be repeated. Much as I regret to say this, but if such a mistake were repeated then absolutely nobody would be left to offer, and maybe thereafter acknowledge, the barest semblance of an apology.


By:
Sarthak Prakash

LEAKAGE

Eons ago, in the times of yore,
Lived a master with his disciples four.
Our legends were their present in that age,
Where lived the four students and the great sage.

On a day like any other, beneath the gleaming sun,
The sage called to his students, appears only one.
“I come father; alone, as my brothers are asleep.”
“Then work; alone, to preserve their slumber deep,
Fetch two panfuls of water daily from Hightop Hill,
But remember, my son, not one drop must you spill.”
Unknown to the disciple, there was that one flaw,
The sage has holed the pan, and such that none saw.
For ten days and nights, the first toiled and worked;
But then always a few drops would seep into the Earth.
Disgusted and defeated; he gave up just after day ten,
And left for further penance, not to be heard of again.
“He was an escapist.” very sagely pointed out the sage,
“You can’t escape; not from this world, not in this age.”

He sent out the second whilst the others slept,
But the secret of the holed pans he still kept.
For twenty days and nights, the second worked;
Bu always a few drop would seep into the Earth.
With patience and perseverance, located the hole,
And promptly repaired it, to make the pan whole.
“Not everything could be modified to suit you.”
cried out the sage, and so the second left too.

The third came, more nervous than confident,
Took the sage’s permission and away he went.
For thirty days and nights, there he worked;
But always a few drops seeped into the Earth.
He thought no one knew, and he kept a secret,
But the sage always knew, so he did not let;
The third disciple stay any longer. And told
“Nothing is hidden from the eyes of the world.”

The last came with sleep still in his eyes,
But quite aware of escape, change and lies.
For days, month and years, toiled and worked;
Bu always a few drop did seep into the Earth.
He planted seeds all along his path of walking,
And flowers bloomed as the pan continued leaking.
“Well done, to realize the situation’s potential,
derive from the problem, a well-derived credential.
To make the best use of your self and surroundings,
Is the fruit and moral of all the world’s teachings.
and that is all I can tell you, Oh great student.”
And with that repartee, right away the sage went!

Eons ago, when their present may be our times of yore,
Lived the great disciple, who learned from people four.
You can never escape, just as much you can never mutate,
You can never hide, and yet the very best you could make;
If only to use all your resources, and never lose your wit,
You will proudly lead the world, and not just be lead by it!


By:
Sarthak Prakash