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

Reading Between The Lines

The orderly placed a small chair in the centre of the room, a low stool, cushioned, with no armrests; the wood aging, the paint flaking, the cushion sagging. Onto this very stool, she settled comfortably, slightly sinking into the soft down, and a large book lay on her lap in quiet anticipation; the edges fraying, the cover fading, the pages inside may be yellowing.

The children, they were murmuring, some tittering, one of them was even pointing at her, but she couldn’t tell; they were sitting cross-legged on the carpeted floor, most of them at a polite distance from the golden-brown Labrador curled around her chair, placed right in the centre of that room. The orderly cleared his throat, loudly, and the children fell silent.

She patted the dog’s head, looked around, and smiled. That bookmark, sticking out of her worn copy, led her to the story the children had so far heard most of. Her long and nimble fingers delicately caressed the page, and she started narrating the tale out loud, her young friends now rapt in attention, one absent-mindedly scratching the drowsy Labrador’s head.

A bell suddenly rang, somewhere not very far from the classroom, and the Labrador quite visibly jumped out of stupor in response. The room then emptied gradually - the denizens tired and sleepy. She gingerly ran her fingers over the last lines, waiting for when ever that she might be able to suitably finish narrating the story, placed the bookmark, closed the book.

The orderly clipped a leash to the now very impatient Labrador’s collar, handing the other end, and a stout white stick to her. She held onto the orderly’s hand for a second more than just fleeting, in her way of saying thanks. She took a pair of Aviators from her bag and put them on, tapping her way out of the room, the Labrador proudly tugging at the leash.

By:

Sarthak Prakash

A Severely Abridged And Altogether Compromised History Of Christianity

Forty-two generations of royalty and none less, preceded the most conscientious shepherd in recorded history, Jesus of Nazareth (yes, that’ll be him, the son of God, the salvation of greeting cards). Jesus, contrary to his regal origins, was born to a carpenter, Joseph, and his estranged wife, Mary, in a manger, beneath open skies, and a particularly shining star. Mary, curiously enough, was a virgin (as in every possible sense of the word) when Jesus was conceived. The idea may even seem beyond natural, but then, Jesus was not ordinary either - the Gospel according to Saint Matthew claims that Mary ‘was found with child of the Holy Ghost’. Jesus, was indeed the son of the Almighty, just as Joseph was told in his sleep by an angel (must have been quite a revealing, and relieving, dream).

Jesus Christ, as he was christened (mild wordplay, and an outright pun) later, and for ever from thereafter, was always surrounded by curious coincidences and mysterious miracles; to the extent that he had enough evidence to preach the existence of a Holy Father, and so very nearly enough to be believed; but just about very nearly (he was crucified - after all.) But, even with many doubts concerning his birth, his fidelity, his mortality, his death, and his eventual resurrection, there are no misgivings that Jesus was indeed extraordinary. He might not even have had the divinity he has always been attributed with (which, although, would disregard the majority of religious doctrine accepted by the West, and underplay at least three other religions confined to similarly disposed mythological circumstances) but there can be no doubts whatsoever - Christ wasn’t just another man, he was the Man.

However, apart from his paranormal (if doubted) lineage, what Jesus had for certain were mindnumbingly effective networking skills. He’s reputed to have been remarkably polite, soft-spoken, and rather charming. For some reason, he was slightly more popular with the ladies, although, most of his primary apostles were men. He was a common man by birth, performing uncommon feats, for an even commoner man. The exponential increase of his popularity should have the recently constituted paparazzi (a medium of promoting liberal expression, not discovered until late in the 20^th century) in raptures of scandalous delight; while the mysterious circumstances of his death and undeath (only for the want of a word so specifically oriented) would be enough to reconsider the very confines of his mortality, and a resurrection later, of his reach to the further beyond.

Why but, did Jesus seem so appealing to the masses? He could have possibly patented the warm and fuzzy effect his sermons had on people, well, most people (but infringement of intellectual rights wasn’t really troublesome, preaching another religion to apparently overthrow the government was; more about that later) Jesus, was unbelievably affectionate, and there was an overwhelming sense of compassion in everything he would say, and do. That he must have been intrinsically incapable of indiscrimination, is without doubt evident from his willingness to treat and cure the ailments of everyone, and anyone in suffering, or need. He was, as an instance of his indisputable benevolence, sympathetic even towards those who ordered and carried out his crucifiction.

And yet, despite his many virtues, and no other vices but for unwavering faith in his God, he was crucified. Apprehended for inciting the masses and promoting civic unrest, he was betrayed to the authorities by a disgruntled disciple, was bargained for against a murderer and found guilty on account of being a trickster and a magician, but mostly a threat to the religious sanction (and the lack thereof) already existing. With a crown of thorns upon his head, he was paraded before his people, flanked by soldiers he walked carrying a wooden cross much larger than his own frail body. Eventually he was nailed to the cross, which was then driven into the ground, his tortured body publicly exhibited, while he was slowly but surely drifting closer to death. He died, and sometime later, he didn’t.

A mildly Hindustaani man (with references to my nation, my culture, and religion) would probably have not been writing this, even severely abridged and altogether compromised, history of Christ and Christians and Christianity, if Jesus had indeed left his earthly abode right then. Which is not saying that he didn’t die, because the fact of the matter is, as I am now almost entirely convinced of, is that he didn’t die because he simply couldn’t. He but had to almost certainly die to prove a point. He was mortal whilst he lived amongst us, he always had the divine grace, undoubtedly; but he died, because he believed that he would do everything he possibly could to show us (and, them, then) the errors of our ways. And, so, he died; but then, he returned to his mourning disciples, and gave them hope.

I would be inconveniently fundamental, if I were to further elucidate upon the history of a wonderful religion, unnecessarily assuming that we know any less about Christianity than we do about Hinduism, or for that matter, any religion cradled in the reaches of being. As to why I even bothered, is because a standard Indian’s accepted perception of Christianity remains confined only to that gazetted holiday on Christmas. A big, fat, and usually, jolly man in swatches of red and white advertises the idea of an alien culture to everybody who can afford to spare the time, money, and patience; and hence do we run into the arms of a foreign religion, embracing the tenets like childhood friends; so due to nothing more than naivety, we become more secular over segregated, more coupled over cohesive - diverse, yes, but not entirely divided.

This piece germinated sometime ago, when a certain state in the Indian subcontinent may have almost witnessed a contemporary crusade, but for the government’s response, which was deferred, and ill-suited; not to even barely mention, within the constitutional confines of the world’s largest secular democracy. Do we, proud denizens of the 21st century, find ourselves unable to much less allow than even appreciate the coexistence of religions? As much as I try to insist upon our severe lack of compassion, there are those who might still unearth bones of contention from the ends intended, and the means adopted thereof. Why, for instance, did I have to discount Christianity over any other religion, and inscribe what every child should, and must already know? And along a similar premise, why did I have to write only about Christ, and not the Prophet Muhammad, or Guru Gobind Singh?

To these questions, and to those who feel they need the answers thereof, I can only wish I could make myself more comprehensible. However the contents of my reply shall remain undisclosed, due to the anatomically graphic nature of. You get the general idea. Amen.

By:

Sarthak Prakash

Hear Say

He bowed to his audience, and caught her eye. She waved at him from the aisle, quickly making her way through a thicket of legs, to a reserved seat right up in front.

He smiled back, and waited for her to comfortably settle down before turning around to the orchestra; the musicians bustling in excitement, their instruments quivering with and in anticipation – his patrons in the audience suddenly felt an urge to fall silent.

He raised his hands – every eye before him would obediently pluck, blow and tap to the flux of his arms; every ear behind him would obediently find music thereof.

She inched closer to the stage, seated practically and very nearly only on the edge of her cushioned seat. The evening’s programme lay uselessly in her lap; she wouldn’t need any references; she would, nevertheless, and as always, surely preserve her copy.

In a quick flurry, the crescendo rose and fell; for, within, and during the many moments of a penultimate climax, before gradually dying out in an eventual conclusion.

In a collective sigh of satisfaction and relief, the musicians remove themselves from their respective instruments, and they applaud. So for themselves, and such for him.

In an apparent and audible heave, the audience left the velvet of their seats; contributing to the magnitude of his ovation. He bowed to his audience, and smiled at her.

She walked to the stage as swiftly and gracefully as her dress would permit, the security guards nodded in recognition, she ran right upto him, and stood there, looking.

He moved his fingers and hands quickly, in apparently very meaningful gestures, for she seemed to smile in response, moving her hands and fingers in an almost similar fashion, mouthing her words carefully. She stepped away, applauding with everyone.

He bowed to his audience; deaf to their applause, but not oblivious, much as the elsewise; mute in his gratitude, but not without, much as the otherwise.

By:

Sarthak Prakash

An Obtuse Angel

Graffiti skies seem far too distant, an angel nearly naked without wings;

Heaven rejects, quite barely reflects; and its Hell that acceptance brings.

A decision made, without the faculties of choice - freedom is never free;

Evil shall embrace the child of scorn, the angel who would rather not be.

Priority corrupted, propriety confused, an angel then succumbs to doubt;

Barred are the doors to Heaven, and just as heartlessly, Hell reaches out.

Mortification may be masked as mercy, amnesty accompanied by abuse;

An offer hardly ever meant to oblige, an angel who just could not refuse.

Each breath reeks of sin - somewhere, somewhat, an angel somehow fell;

Heaven’s outcast is wretched, and condemned to the many curses of Hell.

The divine be damned, when wilting whites wane amidst a beastly black;

Conceived courtesy cosmic conflict, is the angel who could not turn back.

Deserted by discretion – if unable to stay, an angel yet unwilling to leave;

Heaven learns to punish, and in reciprocation, Hell administered reprieve.

As a testimony from torment, deliberating against those afraid to commit;

Promoting a sense of prejudice unbiased, the angel who would not submit.

With wisps of wile, then tendrils of tact - accommodate an angel aberrant;

Heaven could believe elsewise, and rightfully, but Hell is astutely adamant.

Distorted, distracted, distended; psyched beyond these confines of regret;

Amidst those that struggle to remember, is this angel who could not forget.

The renegade will resist the rigours of religion - an angel immune to belief;

Heaven shall then cry tears of tribulation, and Hell ought to celebrate grief.

The want of a faith without even believing, is more impulsive than implied;

Exploiting the potence of every shadow, is an angel who shall not confide.

Alone, and in more than just every sense of the word - an angel set apart;

I really ought to have expected the otherwise, rather than blame my heart.

Struggling to look beyond the obvious, even beneath the supposedly true;

Searching within, eyes forced shut, an angel who would find none but you.

By:

Sarthak Prakash

The Tendencies Of Promoting Flux

I have never appropriately appreciated the strength of stereotype. Hair deliberately longer than the prescribed, consciously unkempt stubble hinting at traces of the artist’s beard, an extremely misused pair of denims, a kurta with the sleeves loosely wound around elbows, and for purposes serving more function than fashion, sneakers salvaged from a cousin. To have then been questioned by a policeman (at the end of his tiring beat, I assumed) was at once thwarting and therapeutic, in equal measures humiliating and healing.

Mind, not that I can always manage to appear terrorising, my demeanour does require the occasional policing; and only because everybody else does, mostly, appreciate stereotype. The sudden interrogation was a blessing in (very bad) disguise – at least someone’s doing the job. That sudden interrogation also managed to convincingly scandalise me, because I wasn’t ever expecting to be at the other end of. But then, would you have? (which, is only rhetoric, and just so that you wouldn’t have to bother with a retort, I hope).

Chai, I suppose, might have a lot to do with stereotype. I believe I could have been sitting in the bistro across the road, sipping on scandalously expensive coffee (try their espresso) as I occasionally do; that I happened to be at the other end, beneath only a sheet of flimsy tarpaulin about barely covering the chaiwallah’s confines, gulping instead on ridiculously cheap tea, may even be why I was then approached for, let’s say, a quick interview.

But please, don’t allow me to define consensus, I suppose you deserve to decide yourself; who then, would you rather believe? Who, if you had to so suppose, is more likely to be a terror-monger (horribly underrated word, by the way) in clandestine? That connoisseur of caffeine savouring a cuppa and biscotti at some café, or that pedestrian (offence intended, but of course) who just ordered a cutting and glucose biscuits at the roadside joint?

There is, however (expecting stereotype shall adequately provide you with answers to the mildly melodramatic questions as aforementioned) a new breed of terrorists on the prowl. The most recent spate of attacks (and you can’t tell when that might have been, should be several days, months and years ago; but could be when you finished reading that last line) reveal that terrorists no longer subscribe to stereotype.

That their ends remain customarily inhuman (for the sheer sake of understatement), while their means graduate continually to newer heights (I would have mentioned depths within the parenthesis, to astound the readers with my utterly insensitive deployment of humour) (but, I decide not to, for the same reasons) of unparalleled depravity (their means, I mean) is how these terrorists can manage to refute stereotype.

I am of the opinion that terror has comfortably and unreasonably adapted to technological and social advances cultivated until the last twenty years, but recently, in our millennium. Young men (and, sometimes, women) are recruited by scouts and agents in the employ of militant organisations (available for nearly every country of this small, small world) often disguised as educational institutions, residential complexes, and recreational camps.

These unassuming students are then mindfucked (do pardon my French, I wish there were another word to describe what actually happens to them, something like a brainwash with potentially toxic detergents; see what I mean? That there really is not another phrase even barely as adequate as mindfucked), trained in several forms of martial and armed combat, prepared for every scenario possible, and then, they’re just mindfucked some more.

These young men (and sometimes, women) are not special, they’re not stupid (generally), they’re certainly not stable, but what bothers me (figuratively of course, is there any other sense that would have made sense?) is, that a purposefully increasing number of them are students, admitted to and sourced from public schools and reasonable colleges. Often, but not always, their (socially acceptable) educations continue during, or sometimes after that other, um, more career specific tutoring. These people, are educated people.

They can manage conversations in the English language (the Queen’s and the President’s, depending on which side of the Atlantic you’re at), they do dress about normally, without attracting unnecessary attention to the benefit of stereotype (normal, again, being specific to the environment they are from, and are then entrusted to) and they would blend in with just about any sort of crowd (the devil, I’ve been told, lies in the details) at absolutely any place with a reasonable number of (mostly) innocent civilians to then target.

But if you aren’t utterly intrigued, and possibly even shaking in your pants (or skirts, with all due respect) then I must admit, I have yet to try harder. These are the people who shall probably be seated right across your table at that restaurant, they may be clinging onto the same handrail as you are (irrespective of the route your buses and metros take), they shall be watching the same movies at your favourite multiplex (that relatively cheaper morning matinee, perhaps, I know I would). They can be anywhere, and everywhere.

They will have their meals, reach their destinations, watch that critically acclaimed drama (not sequentially though, these were just case studies, well, somewhat) and then, they will calmly pull out any from an available assortment of assault rifles and shoot pieces of lead that travel through the air at a velocity fast enough to puncture people (um, yes, that’s the generally accepted metaphor for ballistic violence). Just make sure that you tip the waiter, because he should be very hurt, soon enough, trying to protect the cute chef.

But if you aren’t utterly intrigued, and possibly even shaking in your pants (the skirts will have to wait, this being only slightly more important than a harmlessly misogynistic joke) (oh well, or skirts, with all due respect) then I must admit, you have yet to try harder. The only reason why stereotype can trample over sense is because they’re mutually exclusive. Like the sides of a coin (an excellent analogy, and time-tested, just like a well-worn coin) You may either outrightly encourage stereotype, or you can choose to rely on sense.

The new terrorist has already adapted to this principle, but far more convincingly than we ever might. If we have to look for troublemakers hiding behind only a particular costume, he’s changed his outlook completely. If we look for people who would seem out of place, he’s made sure he isn’t. If broken sentences struggling with vernacular do give him away, his recently acquired grasp of several internationally accepted accents couldn’t. And with sexist humour apart, if we’re still only looking for him, she won’t even need to hide.

Stereotypes need to change. What was unaccepted, or unexpected, maybe unprecedented, would gradually and eventually be the otherwise. We, howsoever, are still struggling with axioms which should have in every but the most ineffective scenario been replaced about several generations ago. We, yet, still revel in the most ineffective scenario.

Unkempt tresses, and a faint beard, and khadi for the kurta, and denims, and sneakers can not make terrorists. Which, is precisely why the interrogation had to happen. Vigilance, is about an only and most effective measure we could afford to adopt, not the cosy comforts of stereotype. Or does the accent not betray but my truest intentions to you?

By:

Sarthak Prakash

That Parallels Never Do

She was smoking a cigarette furtively; and only because she was more than occasionally glancing around she seemed to be waiting for someone, but in actuality, she was waiting for something instead; and only because waiting is awfully boring to be done all alone, is why nothing but a few hurried drags would even barely relieve her of the dullness.

He was smoking a loosely-wrapped joint, rolled in haste, falling apart along the seam. He might have been waiting, he might have been not; there was not anyone and there was not anything that required his immediate concern; none and nothing, but those few shreds of mildly influenced tobacco simpering and smouldering such between his fingertips.

She looked around, yet again, and she caught his eye - he had been hoping she might, and he was glad she did. He smiled meekly, not wanting to outrightly suggest the possibilities frolicking behind his eyes, and she smiled back, faintly aware that his smile held far more promise than he might have wanted to reveal.

He flicks the stub in a manner he thought was unusually nonchalant; and he finds that she was staring at him with so much more than just casual interest. She smiled, and he gladly reciprocated with a faint nod of his head, hoping whatever and whosoever she might have been waiting for such, may just take about forever.

She was reasonably assured that they had previously once chanced upon each other, she can’t remember when.

He suddenly realised that they might just have shared a very similar encounter before, he can’t remember where.

She usually would never find herself at such amusing odds, and never before so curiously excited either. They might have only smiled at each other, but she was suddenly bursting with many other memories, mirthful and melancholic in equal measures.

Where, she so wonders, had they met before, if at all, and would they meet again, to share more than just these smiles of promise?

He generally refused to involve himself in any sense of unfamiliarity, and they may have never before even smiled at each other, and so he was gradually working his way through twenty years of faces, trying to find a reference, expecting recollection.

When, he thought of, did they meet before, if at all, and would they meet again, to glance at with more than just twinkling eyes?

The bus screeched to a halt, she climbed in, and something makes him follow. He found a seat near the far-end, and somehow, she couldn’t find another but right next to him. They smiled, she was about to ask him when, but he did instead.

The bus gently rolled into the stop, he climbed in because he was sure she would, and she already had. He looked for two empty seats, sat down, and finds himself beside her. They smiled, and he might have asked about where, but she did.

The buses sped off, in an opposite direction each. She was talking to him, heading for one end in this city of uncharted possibilities, and he was talking to her, heading in a direction quite another, along only a route decidedly parallel.

By:

Sarthak Prakash