Moments of our lives-The dethroning of Spiderman

There are some incidents in life which remain forever etched, in minute and graphic detail, in one’s memory. The following is exactly one such memory, and I can only be thankful, that this etching is a happy one, because they’re not only something that each friend I have absolutely has to hear, they’re also something of a rarity. Most people who I want to tell this to have already heard it, but they’ll agree it deserves a text version. I’m reasonably sure this text won’t do it justice, not entirely anyway, but something tells me that it can’t hurt to try.

The memory is from when we found ourselves in the ‘thirteenth’ in that magical city they call Kota. Like any other evening I found myself at my desk poring over some obscure factorisation or figuring out some evil equation of trajectory. As was almost customary, I would take my breaks on the 2M1 terrace, my dwelling, hang out, gather point etcetera etcetera. The view was what made it special. It overlooked the Jhulelal temple on one side, the joggers’ park on another, the gay-lane on yet another and was situated at the crossroads of five illustrious lanes, each of which, in that sleepy village of a town, deserves a story of its own.

Now one would assume, that a thoroughly taxed mind, would take its rest when it was given to it. But no sir, it worked in quite the opposite way. It was in those moments of supposed rest on that fateful terrace that all of us had brainwaves that were quite remarkably, almost ingeniously idiotic.

So as I casually stared upon the world from the eye of that terrace, my mind drifted from the gay lane to the Shubhi store with its wealth of rubbish and slowly across the Mayukh residence, now bare of its lively residents of yesteryears. From there it almost automatically swam to the home of the Jhulelal and into the narrow lane-of-crime and slowly fixated itself, of all things, upon the ledge right under my terrace and the joggers’ park wall near it.

In his heyday as a moron, Karan Girdhani had been known to jump right off the terrace and onto the ledge, from where he would then leap onto the joggers’ park wall from where he would descend and effectively, completely eliminate the stairs in this flight to the ground floor.

This story is based in Karan Girdhani’s heyday as a moron.

That is not to say that he was any dumber than the rest of us, but that he was the only one who had, up until this point, attempted this foolishly dangerous stunt. Even he had to admit that he was lucky to have gotten away with his limbs intact. With these thoughts in mind I began to ponder upon the useless question of whether there was a less risky way of getting down off the terrace and into the lane below. Quite naturally, it never occurred to me that the strong stone staircase that was used to move from floor to floor fit this description perfectly.

Looking at the ledge, it seemed to me that one could climb off the terrace onto the ledge, then lower himself into a hanging position on the ledge and then gently release one’s grip on the ledge to find oneself in the lane below. A far more graceful solution than Karan’s and also infinitely less risky. Now considering I’m a bit of what in my parts would be referred to as a “phattu” and what in your parts may be referred to as a “pipsqueak” and which in yet other parts may be referred to as a “beseengh kee gai”, I wasn’t going to be the first to try out this brainchild of a wayward academic break.

As usual the gang gathered for dinner at our usual dinner haunt. I looked around the table, they were all there, all those who in this story form the “we”, except Saurav, who always ate at home and always without onions.

The lights at the mess were always dim to keep the insects out. In the long shadows of that dimly lit mess, the demented scientist of my academic breaks found his lab rats.

After dinner we passed the lane-of-crime over which the ledge hung and I casually suggested my low risk staircase evasion plan to the others. Bored and deprived souls that they were, almost immediately, Karan and Satpal (of Dabba Khel fame) wanted to have a go at it.

Saurav, who always ate at home and always without onions, also happened to be a resident of 2M1, in fact he lived next door from me.

Now Saurav, well he’s no ordinary guy and he often makes me wonder if man derives his sanity completely from onions. He’s a little, whatdoyoucallit, nuts. There was this one time when I told him some fantastic Sunny Deol style story complete with shotguns, broken jaws and a police chase. I also conveniently added our 75 yr old landlord as the hero of this fairy tale and Saurav, with his eyes nearly popping out of his head, lapped it up like a thirsty cat. In the excitement that followed this ridiculous narration, Saurav ran amok through the rooms of 2M1 and in a wave of adrenaline, nearly threw me off the, by now well known, terrace.

Days later when I summoned up the courage to tell him that the story wasn’t exactly completely true, or even slightly, it broke his heart and he didn’t speak to me for almost a week.

To his credit, he has a heart of gold and is now one of my closest pals.

So back to that fateful day, as Karan and Satpal made their way up to the terrace, Saurav got wind that something was up, something that he for one, was certainly not going to miss. So Saurav, always easily excited, completely abandoned his onion free meal and raced headlong to be the first to get off that ledge. I’ve been told that in U.P. and M.P., where life is pretty much first come first serve and which is where Satpal, Saurav and Karan hailed from, it’s quite valid to wrestle one another to be the first to get just about anywhere. So that’s exactly what Karan and Saurav engaged themselves in while Satpal attempted to descend in the low risk manner described earlier.

In an ungraceful and rather uncomfortable way, Satpal dropped off onto the ledge, managed somewhat to get into a vague hanging position before he fell, rather than released himself, into the lane below. The attempt was theoretically a success but it certainly made the stairs look like an attractive proposition. Satpal was bruised and embarrassed. He wanted another go at it. All this while we could hear Saurav yelling to break free. Satpal went up again to restrain Saurav (which was no mean feat) while Karan attempted the same challenge.

As Satpal went up yet again the yelling grew louder and we could hear the sure sounds of a scuffle with all the requisite expletives in place.

Up on the terrace, Saurav had just managed to break free and his mind started racing at the speed of a Sunny Deol flick. Racing from the stairs to the ledge, he devised a plan which characterises his school of thinking. He decided, moving at the velocity at which he was, he’d jump right off the terrace, then as he moved through the air he would turn around, raise his arms, lock onto the ledge with both hands as he fell past it and then comfortably release himself into the waiting lane-of-crime.

All in one fluid motion, in one moment of glory, to one rapturous, never ending applause.
Indeed, in Saurav’s mind, Spiderman had already been dethroned.

The following few moments form a large part of what remains etched in the memory of all those involved.

Saurav, following his plan, raced like the wind and reached the edge of the terrace. Like a gazelle, he leapt over the terrace railing, making it seem insignificant. In mid air he rotated with the flair of a magician performing a well practiced trick. Preparing himself to descend upon the world of mortals, he raised his arms in anticipation and prepared his hands to lock onto the ledge. And by Jove, he even managed to grab it but by with what is commonly called “just one hand” and in a moment where I’m sure he was thoroughly confused about this mishap, he landed squarely on his butt.

Now let me paint the scene for you. Anvesh, Munnu, Swami and I were on the ground floor while Satpal and Karan were on the terrace. Saurav of course, was in mid air. The group on the ground was reasonably oblivious to what was happening, considering how quickly it happened. In an instant, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a flash and something landed in the lane beside me. In a village with no flying objects (apart from Saurav), and at about 8.30 in the evening, birds and planes were hardly a possibility. Before we’d even turned to where Saurav landed, we knew what had happened.

The wall of the joggers’ park had sharp spiked railings, Saurav missed them by a hair’s width. In a land of motorcyclists who don’t believe in looking ahead while riding, he’d also been extremely lucky no one was riding in the lane-of-crime as he descended upon it. Of all the places one could have landed, he landed on his butt. And surprisingly enough, he was still in one piece.

When he looked up for the first time, the look on his face…ahh, I’d give anything to see it again, just once. I have never, and I mean never, seen a more profound amalgam of so many different emotions on one face, all at the same time. The bitch of it is that I probably never will again either. There was pain, I think that arose in the behind of his anatomy. There was confusion, which like I said charactersises his school of thought. There was humiliation, which is obvious. There was distress, partly from being on your ass in the middle of a narrow lane and partly from blindness, because his glasses were missing. I could see surprise and wondered if it was surprise at having missed the ledge or surprise at being alive. Also, most importantly and something I’d drink to, if I drank, there was the hint of a smile. That was the cue for the rest of us, and the next few minutes were lost in tedious, side splitting, blinding laughter.

Saurav’s only views on the issue, made public by him hours later, were, “yaar yeh josh kisi din jaan ley lega”.

As if that wasn’t enough for the evening, plenty more unfolded, but that’s a different story.

P.S. Now i'm absolutely sure i haven't done justice to the story, but considering the laughs i had just reliving the whole thing, i think it was worth the while.

random fiction

Rummaging through the ancient files on my computer, i chanced upon this, something i wrote years back in school. Given the age of this computer, it would have been lost soon, so i decided to put it somewhere safer, as a memory.



It was one of those Sunday mornings, when the sun is out, the land is green and the mind of a young boy, at its freshest and most imaginative, pushes his body to go out and enjoy itself. It is on one such immortal Sunday morning that I found myself in a dilemma as to whether I should go for a swim with my friends or whether I should start working on the patch of loose soil in the eastern end of the garden, something I had been dying to do for months. As I pondered over this difficult question, there were a series of knocks on the front door. The knocks sounded like the hooves of a horse that is perhaps not feeling very well in the stomach. Judging by that, it was certainly my uncle Ravi. Large and rubicund, he stormed into the house like a dangerous, yet well-meaning, elephant. I must say my mother looked rather relieved when he finally seated himself on the sofa. She is always a little concerned about the crystals.

Uncle Ravi, it may be mentioned, is always upon some “venture”. The success of these ventures, unfortunately, is not as considerable as their number. But he keeps on trying, which is heartening. I was sure that we would soon get to know what his current venture was. Why, we might even receive the “high honour” of playing some role towards its fulfillment. Soon enough, we discovered that Uncle Ravi was “shipping” cash for a well-known bank from town to town. One must remember that this story is a few years old and at the time cash flow was still tedious and time consuming and Any-Time-Money machines were virtually unheard of. So, by “shipping” cash out to the bank’s widely dispersed costumers, he hoped to make cash transactions faster and popularize the bank. One might say that this was not a task to be performed by one man, but Uncle Ravi was not a man who thought much of such trivial arguments. As I soon came to know, Uncle Ravi was going on one such trip that day. It being a Sunday, he felt that by delivering money on a holiday, he would be able to show off a shining example of his bank’s efficient customer service.

“Look here sonny boy,” he said to me “there’s a lonely stretch on the road that I’m heading for, and I’m carrying a lot of money with me, fifty thousand to be exact. I wouldn’t mind having a strong young lad with me.”

I nearly blushed at his praise, but at the same time realised that Uncle Ravi, being as large as he was, couldn’t really have meant that. He was probably just looking for company, and I was more than willing to comply. Going on a long drive on a lonely country road certainly made swimming or gardening seem hollow.

Soon I found myself in a taxicab heading north along a beautiful stretch of golden yellow cornfields. Uncle Ravi once had a car, but his stint as a professional motor-racer had made short work of his automobile. That was why he now generally moved around in a taxicab.

The driver of our cab was a young man of about twenty-five. He seemed eager to make conversation. Uncle Ravi, who was sitting next to me in the back seat, casually pulled out his wallet to check his cash. Now there is something about Uncle Ravi that I must tell you. He rarely remembers to carry his money with him. It is not as though he were cheap, though that is the impression some people get. It is as though his fertile mind is to full of his ingenious ideas to be bothered with things so trivial as remembering to carry some money with him. I should have anticipated this and reminded him. But now it was too late. Uncle Ravi was looking at his empty wallet with look of pure amazement. He couldn’t imagine how he’d forgotten to bring some money along this time.

The young, jaunty driver sensed something was not right.

“Anything amiss, sir, ?” he asked in a friendly sort of way.

“Amiss? Certainly not, young man.” Said Uncle Ravi, quickly changing his expression. “It’s a pleasure to ride on these country roads, undisturbed by all the hustle-bustle, traffic and pollution of the city.”

“You’re dead right there, sir,” said the driver. “I worked at a tannery in the city for a year sir, and I was beginning to get quite rich sir, but was never happy, ‘cos there’s money in the city sir, but there ain’t no peace there. I moved to the country about a year back and now I’m a happy man.”

“You should be, with a nice little car like this. Its got the feel of the old times in it.” said Uncle Ravi.

“Yes sir, she’s a little old and bit rusty but she hums along just as well as those fancy new cars,” said the proud owner of the taxicab.

“Would you, by any chance, be willing to sell this little jalopy?” inquired Uncle Ravi.

“That depends on what you would be willing to part with sir,” came the prompt reply.

“Would fifty thousand be fine with you?” Uncle Ravi asked nonchalantly.

The driver tried hard to mask a look of extreme surprise but I could see he wasn’t finding that very easy. The previous Sunday he had found an old man who ha reluctantly agreed to pay him fifteen thousand because he wanted the engine as an antique for his automobile museum. The driver was ready to dispose of it as soon as he found an alternative employment. Now he was being offered thirty five thousand more for the same piece of junk. He couldn’t believe his luck.

“Fine, er…I…I mean,” he stuttered, “ yes ,I think that should be fine sir,” he said finally.

“Very well then, here’s the money,” said Uncle Ravi, handing him the bag full of the money that was to be delivered to the bank’s customer.

The driver took a peek inside the bag, saw enough to please him, and continued driving.

“She’s yours, sir,” he said loudly.
Uncle Ravi merely smiled.

I didn’t have any inkling as to what was happening, but knowing Uncle Ravi, it was certainly some ingenious scheme to get us out of paying the taxicab’s bill.

Sometime later in the afternoon, Uncle Ravi spoke again.

“Young man, the car’s been making a strange sound for the past half hour. I don’t think I want to buy it. I’d like my money back,” he said.

A look of dismay crossed the driver’s face.
“But sir, she’s a nice little thing, just like you said, she and you, they’re made for each other sir, she’s just fine,” he cried out in despair.

“All that was before I heard these strange noises. Now I think I’ve got a raw deal. I’ll take my money back, thank you very much,” was Uncle Ravi’s firm response.

“No, sir I don’t want to buy it. It’s yours. I don’t want to buy it. I’ve got nothing to do with it,” the driver said, almost triumphantly.

Uncle Ravi quickly brought out a tattered old book from his pocket. I could read the words “The Indian Penal Code” on the cover. What in the world was going on?

“Here it is, section twenty eight, clause two,” said Uncle Ravi. He then read out the words of the clause, “objects sold, if returned within twenty four hours of sale, in the same condition as when sold, must receive full and complete repayment from the person they have been bought from. (This clause does not include articles of an edible nature. For list of articles, see clause three).”

The driver, who could read, knew he was beaten and handed back the bag of money to Uncle Ravi.

We soon reached our destination. Uncle Ravi got out of the car and started to walk away without paying.

“My payment sir,” shouted the driver from behind him.

“Payment?” said Uncle Ravi, “surely, you don’t expect me to pay for a ride in my own car.”

“What are you talking about, sir?” asked the driver, who was unable to understand anything.

“Look here, my dear fellow,” Uncle Ravi began explaining, “when I was in that taxicab, I bought it, so it was mine. Now you can’t really expect me to pay you for that, can you? I was in my car.”
With that, Uncle Ravi walked away.

It was evening and Uncle Ravi had just come to the end of his story. Everyone was laughing.

“But we were right legally, weren’t we, uncle?” I asked.

“Son, that’s a very old copy of the Penal Code I had there. That law was abolished in 1966.”

“So shouldn’t you pay back the poor driver now?” I asked.

“I’ve already done that son, I like to keep a clean conscience,” he said somberly.

I joined in the laughter.