Traveling Light

by Athul DeMarco

Image Source

It was the summer of 1978. The movers and shakers of the world were flying to exotic locales like Disney land and Timbuktu to meet Mickey Mouse and the many starving princes. But Mr. and Mrs. Azad were off to get their 5 year old son acquainted with their respective in-laws. Traveling in the late 70's by the Indian railways was the basis with which futuristic theorists envisioned humans prepare themselves for the inevitable apocalypse. Mrs. Azad had packed little Tarun's milk bottle, enabling his fixation and obsession with his mother's breasts, food and snacks neatly packed in steel vessels, tea and milk to last for the whole 72 hour journey, along with mattresses, bed sheets, pillows, pillow covers and toilet supplies to last them for an indefinite period of time, just in case the broke down and the last man and woman alive had trouble fornicating in a valiant effort to save human race.

The concept of traveling light was yet to be discovered.

After boarding the delayed train, and making the customary baggage count, Mrs. Azad found to her utter disappointment that she had indeed forgotten few essential items to pack like fresh vegetables, fruits and hangars to hang their dirty laundry. The train had started to move and gather momentum in congruence to the then known laws of physics. As Mrs. Azad turned around to convey the news of her incompetence in the department of packing and household management to Mr. Azad, she found him on the platform waving them goodbye, with a wry smile on his face.

Mr. Azad was a man from the future. And he had done what any man from his time would have done, find a way to shed the excess weight and refrain from paying the excess baggage fee and accompanying tax at the check-in counter of life. He was truly a man of the future. He believed in traveling light.

It was the winter of 2010. Mrs. Azad on her flight to Machu Picchu received a text on her smart phone from Tarun. Her husband had finally been found. The message read, "Dead. No Balls, as instructed. Have a safe flight". Mrs. Azad boarded her flight with her Louis Vuitton bag in hand and wry smile on her face.

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Somebody once said, I am not sure if it was me, but anyway, "If you like traveling, meeting people, always trying to figure out what people are thinking, you can either become a researcher or you can create them...". So now I create them when I am not meeting them. 

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Won’t you take me to Funkytown?

by Nishi Shroff

Image Source: Sellerby.com

I don’t want to be a hypocrite, but it isn’t easy to live in a city where moving just half-an-inch, in any direction, means stepping on somebody’s toes, literally. I would also like to breathe fresh air, but when I sit at a promenade I can still inhale Marlboro fumes. I most definitely don’t want to be a hypocrite.

There are billboards all over the place and nobody cares what’s on them, you learn how to tune it all out when there’s so much clutter thrown at you. What worries me are the lakhs and crores in ad spends, especially when a child is crapping on the corner of a busy junction, right below a bank’s hoarding.

Being grown up requires Shit, Strength and Sass

by Rucha Shukla

Grown up. How often do our parents ask us to grow up? Be mature. Start behaving our age. We feel indignant. We are behaving our age, this is what I am supposed to be at 15 or 16 or 18. Let me live.

And you live. Till one day you find that life catches up with you and you realize that you have grown up. Actually. And oh man that is such a weird realization. Suddenly you want to go back. Reach 14, hit 16, and swing all the way into 18 and re enact your 21^st birthday…All over again.

But you’re grown up now. What to do? What’s been drilled into our heads since we were probably 5 has finally come to pass. You start behaving mature, you file your tax returns (and that to me is the ultimate in grown up world), you start worrying what you will put on your Facebook status will be read and judged by people, you worry about money (which you earn and hence is even more precious) and you worry about the super ultimate “Where is my life headed?”

But somebody has to be grown up. To my mind it’s like puberty, it’s going to hit you sooner or later. Too soon and you’ll feel weird; too late and you’ll feel like you’re irresponsible. Either ways, it’s going to hit you.

Doesn’t have to be doomsday, though it sounds like that the way I’ve written it. It’s just hit me and I’ve been at times fighting tooth and nail to resist it or embracing it like the Chipko movement.

The trick – None that I can think of, except that you make it up as you go along. Sort of like writing your own story, you edit your own parts, add your own drama, polish up the words and do a little bit of calligraphy. And you get to choose your very own paper. I would choose a purple colored one.

What does this post mean? I don’t know. It’s a cross between The Sunscreen Song and Finding Neverland. I 

think.

Hi my name is Rucha and I’m trying to write. All over again.

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Rucha Shukla is an Associate Producer for TV and has recently spent most of her time alternately dreaming about getting a house in Coorg so that she can write random poetry for the rest of her days and watching reruns of Supernatural.

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Feature: Memento Mori

by Arvind Menon

Congratulations on choosing Memento Mori, you are one step closer to a joyous and fulfilling life.

The Memento Mori program promises to free your mind from a dull dreary outlook, and lead you to greener, brighter pastures and help you find all the happiness you’ve ever wanted.

The program was founded in 1969 by renowned psychologist and philosopher, Dr. Ahmed Beirut. He postulated that with rapid advances in technology, medicine and science, mankind’s zest for living exponentially reduced. Man is being driven to a life with illusionary pleasures and manufactured emotions. Through years of study, Dr. Beirut found that if one wants to really feel true freedom, one must embrace death and face their inevitable mortality on a daily basis.

From this idea, the Memento Mori Program was born.

In 3-4 weeks you will receive your Starter Kit, which includes a jar containing one thousand (1000) blue capsules. Hidden within these capsules is one (1) capsule of slow acting cyanide. The rest of the pills are absolutely harmless placebos. 

You must keep this jar at your bedside and consume one capsule with a glass of water every night.

If you happen to consume the cyanide capsule, it will start working with three (3) hours, killing you peacefully while you sleep.

If you consume the placebo, you will wake up in the morning, fresh and thankful at having received the gift of a brand new day.

With the renewed vigour that comes with embracing one’s mortality, you will be able to pursue activities of your choice through the day with a noticeably upbeat and cheerful outlook to life.

You will be able to relish and savour each moment of the day, find fulfilling hobbies and pursuits and engage in more meaningful interpersonal relationships with near and dear ones.

You will receive a fresh supply of placebos every three (3) months which you must add to the jar and shake vigorously.

 Please note that at Memento Mori, we do not subscribe to cheap psychological tricks to motivate our patrons. There is a real cyanide pill in the jar, the consequences of consuming which are most definitely lethal. We encourage our patrons to get their affairs in order before starting the program.

You can call our 24 hour toll free helpline to avail of legal assistance at a subsidized rate to draw up a last will and testament.

Kindly consider signing up for our organ donor program, and help those in need, even in death.

Once again, best regards for your new life. Make every second count.

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Arvind Menon (who refused to contribute to his bio for this section, and hence I am doing it) is one of the most talented people I know. His ability to come up with unconventional ideas and structure them in an innovative manner has led to a career in advertising. It also leads to some very interesting conversations and (as you can see) some fantastic writing.

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Feature: The Day

by Chandni Tolani

She stepped out of the shower and her hands trembled as she scrubbed her perfect black curls, dry. She knew this was it; it was the day when he was going to pop the big question to her. Last evening, he had invited her to a lavish dinner at one of the most expensive rooftop restaurants in the city. 'Friday, 9 PM, Aer. It's a date!' She read the message every ten minutes. It made her smile nervously every time she read it.

She sat in front of the mirror, thinking to herself what would she wear? She had waited for this for seven long years, and it was finally happening. She wanted to look her best, on this day. "Should I wear the yellow dress that he loves the most? Or maybe something that he's never seen me in before?" She wasn’t too fond of the colour, but he loved it, so it didn’t matter. So many thoughts crawling in and out of her mind, it had to be a flawless night.

She walked to her wardrobe and tried eleven outfits before she chose one. It wasn't the same dress, but it was his favourite colour, yellow. She let her hair loose, just the way he liked it, with the curls falling on her back and just some, on her face. She wore diamond earrings, stilettoes and carried a clutch bag. She checked her watch; it was ten minutes to nine. It would take her twenty minutes to cover the distance from her house to the restaurant. He was never late, which was one of the traits about him, she adored the most. He would make certain he reached before time; he hated to make her wait. She took one last look at herself, before stepping out of home and took a deep breath knowing that she won’t be single again. It was 'the day'.

On her journey to Aer, she recalled all the special moments she had cherished with him. How she’d wake him up every morning with a phone call, ‘There’s no better way of starting my day, than hearing your voice’, he always said. How she would innocently act silly when he was low, just to make him smile. How they would cuddle on the couch and watch movies every weekend. Their little fights over Chinese food or Italian, he loved the latter. Meaningless conversations in the middle of the night, unexpected surprises on no special occasions, everything came back to her in a flash. She was beaming, impatiently!

If you want to be happy, be.

by Suchita Ranglani

It’s funny how everyday we end up getting into a silly argument with either our best friend or our worst enemy. How we crib about the most irrelevant things. How we let the fact that our favorite donut at MOD isn’t available affect us so much.  Or the fact that someone doesn’t agree with us.  How we cry over spilling ketchup over our white t-shirt or complain about a coming up test or an assignment. It’s just so silly.

Below the surface, we end up forcing ourselves to live in pain, long for the past, crib about what we do and do not have. We sympathize with ourselves, with our “pain”. With the apparent ‘shattered’ state we are in. Blame others for the mess in our lives. Try to change ‘their’ view and in the bargain lose our minds. Get angry with ‘them’ because apparently “they’re wrong”. Regret what we’ve already done. And unknowingly, get accustomed to the depression. It’s just SO strange.

What we don’t realize that the ‘shattered’ state claim to be in is our own choice. We have put ourselves there, by focusing on everything that is supposedly ‘wrong’.

Feature: Mumbai Local Trains - A Class Apart

by Mihir Suvanam

Image by Blaine Rodrigues

Just to fuck with your head, the Western Railways Corporation classified different coaches on their train system as First Class and Second Class. It’s all the same class really and we are all equally fucked no matter what class we travel. Nobody here gets out smelling like jasmine. But what this class distinction does do is induce in the working class a false sense of status.

I pay about 800 odd Rupees for a 3 month ‘First Class’ pass to travel from Santacruz to Elphinstone Road. Why do I buy this in spite of knowing that there are an equal number of bodies stacked in to my compartment as compared to the other un-striped compartment? Because I’m a classist whore and the first class stacks me up against pin-striped, educated, white collar, bespectacled, novel readers. I deserve no less. If I am going to be showered with warm sweat it’d better be from these gentlemen.

But these men are probably somebody else’s bitches too, which is why they waste no time in exerting their superiority once inside the ‘First Class’ black hole. If an un-stripped, laborer-type bhaiya is spotted in our little slice of luxury, then God have mercy on him. It’s not like he’s single handedly causing the compartment to overflow with human bodies. The average reaction before someone notices him is about 6 seconds; somebody will smugly say “Yeh first class hai!” That’s it. No solution will be offered or no moral will be taught. A fact will be stated in its entirety. And then the gent will wait for the words to take effect. This will melt thebhaiya’s ego, the last dying cell of his self-respect will commit suicide and his head will hang low. At the next stop he will get down and merge with the non-perfumed sweat of his un-stripped brethren.

Friday Feature: Ditched

Yes, I know that it's Saturday, not Friday. However, with the server down all day yesterday I have been left at the mercy of the internet. So, just a day late, here's this week's Friday Feature.

by Himanshu Saxena

He was a perfect hunk – big height, iron biceps, boulder chest, long hair, not to mention a national guitar contest winner, topper of his class in engineering, and finally a job holder in the most glamorous consulting firm in the world. Meet Raj Bhaskar, a name that stands for everything that a guy always wanted to become, increases heartbeats and stops everything around. Raj Bhaskar had seen victory in every sphere possible, and there is perhaps nothing else he could have wanted.

But not the same for his parents. Being the parents of Raj Bhaskar has an added challenge – how to get him married. Boys like him simply don’t marry – and unless he marries he cannot be responsible for his life and his family’s. 

So came the inevitable. 

Dinner table fight ending in near fisticuff, and the final verdict – Raj Bhaskar should get a girl by the end of the year of his parents would get one for him. And if neither happens, then all the property including hundreds of acres of land, a condo near Marine Drive, a chain of 13 hotels and a horse stable will go to a variety of charities that Raj Bhaskar couldn’t even count.

A Witches Wag by Zahanya Talati

Keeping with the workshops we're having, we have a special Children's feature this week as 8-year-old Zahanya Talati gives us a rhyme about a witch.

Once in a spooky land

There lived a witch very grand

She had white, curly hair

Like a giant Polar bear!

She put a skull on her flag

And went sailing off to a land

Where the trees could talk and walk

And the vultures scream and squawk

Every day she ate a lot

Till she grew as fat as a pot!

There she married FooFoo Fumo

A wizard as big as a Sumo!

They went off to their honeymoon

To the round, shiny, white Moon

Where the days were light and white

And the nights were very bright

So, if you look up the sky

Wave and say a big HI

To Mrs Witch and her husband

Who now live in Moonland!

So the next 22nd July

When you look up at the sky

Do remember to wave

And shout out a big ‘hi!’

To check out our Creative Writing Summer programme click here.

Friday Feature: The Unborn

by Prateek Singh

She was happy and excited when she visited the doctor. A medley of emotions ran through her mind and drove her towards craziness. She wanted to tell him that soon she was going to be a mother and he, the father. He couldn't accompany her to the doctor but suddenly that didn't seem to matter to her. She wanted to  share with the world how blessed she felt. After all, this was going to be her first child. On her way home, she began making plans for his or her first birthday, his or her name and also for the future. Today, she didn't call him. Instead, he gave her a call and came home early where he was given the surprise. He, too, was overjoyed and that night they went out for dinner.

Weeks passed by, his sister came home so that she could have some rest. She did all she could so that her child could remain healthy. She ate nutritious  food, she looked after herself, she cherished every moment. She didn't feel the pain. She even enjoyed it when the baby kicked. It felt that it was a medium of communication between them. She keenly observed the growth of the baby from an embryo to a human child. Every night before going to bed, she would say a silent prayer for the well-being of the unborn. She blushed when anyone talked about the child. Her smile made her eyes sparkled with happiness. She even wrote a diary of all the events that were taking place during her pregnancy. Her life was perfect.

Friday Features: What’s in a cliché?

by Pankti Mehta

The clock is ticking to the eleventh hour, and you’re at your wit’s end. You’re still at square one with your piece, typing and erasing, typing and erasing. The sun stopped shining hours ago, but your hay remains unmade. All you want to do is forget how procrastination reached its peak today and call it a day now that it’s late – so you end up writing a paragraph that looks a bit like this.

I’ve always been confused with the cliché. How much is too much? I remember going through a phase when I would avoid them except in titles or endings. At about the same time Holden Caulfield spoke about how his English teacher didn't like cliches. "But I like them," he said. "They're accurate, and in some situations, they hit the nail right on the head."

That made sense. They’re recognizable, those clichés, give your reader something to relate with. They work superbly for headlines, let you use puns, ‘catch-phrases’, but they don’t come without the danger of over-use. I’ve fallen into the snare myself, not that long ago, using the headline ‘Go green’ for a story about how to use the colour in your home interiors. It made me cringe then, too, knowing fully well it’s terribleness, but it fit the space exactly and it was late…oh well.

Friday Features: Waiting for the Call

by Anchal Katyal

Illustration by Anchal Katyal

I was at work when my phone rang.  I switched it off. Sneha, a good friend of mine, asked me why I was so disturbed. I told her that my dad and I had a fight and I just didn’t want to talk to him.

“Hey, can I tell you something?”she asked.  “It’s a story.” Surprised, I told her to tell me; I needed to take my mind off my dad anyway. 

“It happened many years ago,” she said, “but it’s still fresh in my mind like it was yesterday. The pain, love and support of a truest friend. I was 17, a new adult, ready to face life on my own and that was the main reason for all the fights with my parents. I knew what I was doing, be it right or wrong. I believed in myself but I guess they lacked trust in me. I was an average kid, well a bit above average. But right from my childhood my father used to tell me to make friends with those class toppers. I never liked that. I had my own group and they were like me, but my father didn’t like them because they weren’t scholars. Things turned bad when I stopped talking to them. I managed to get a scholarship in a college in Pune and so I moved to college hostel. I managed to do everything on my own as though there was no one to help me.” 

“I loved my mom,” she continued. “I don’t know when I started hating my father. I thought moving away would make me like him again. I called my mom once in 10 days but the conversation never lasted for more 

than 5 minutes. I never talked to my father. As time passed I became used to being alone.” 

“My dad’s birthday was coincidently a holiday in college. I left him a message and he didn’t bother to call. I was his daughter, yet in these last 9 months he didn’t feel like talking to me once. A part of me wished he would call, at least once.  I was sitting on the terrace of the hostel crying when Jay came to me. He was my best friend in college. I told him everything and he took out his phone and called my dad.” 

“‘Hello, may I speak to Mr. Rohit Arora?’ he said. ‘I am an old friend of his.’ I figured he was making my wish come true. Suddenly his face turned pale. 

Friday Features: Fic(kle)tion

by Manav Parekh

Fic(kle)tion is a piece about Domestic Violence

Eloquent realms of the summer stench,

Caress the mind on a seaside bench.

Footprints of fiends on the watered sand,

Reflect the fire never seen on land.

Faint, the sound of the simmering sight,

In cold blood she killed and painted it white.

Flags of the founders fluttered in salute

Her eyes were staring at all that was absolute.

Friday Features: Tore Sang Jaaungi (I shall go with you )

by Manjushree Abhinav

Some things don't change, not over a few centuries. The flip-flop nature of the mind and the stilling, magnetic influence of art. Makes sense? Yes, but so what, right? There are innumerable ways of saying something. I shall say the same thing now through a story. Tell me how you like it.Once upon a time, there lived a man called Kabir who weaved cloth for a living. You probably had to study his poetry in your Hindi books. Forget all you ever read. Imagine yourself to be here, in Kabir's house, now, in the fifteenth century.

Kabir lives with his mother, and mostly spends his time weaving cloth and singing his own songs to the beat of the loom. 

Seeing his detachment from the worldly and attraction for the spiritual, Kabir's mother takes him to a neighbouring village on the pretext of getting some cotton and gets him married to a young girl. Kabir is neither overjoyed nor unhappy.

On the wedding night, when everyone else is asleep and they are alone, his bride suddenly bursts into tears.

'What? Missing your family? Want to go back?' he asks her.

'No. Never,' she replies.

'Ok. That's fine. Then why are you crying?'

'I am missing someone.'

'Hmm.'

Kabir walks to and fro in the small room, as his bride sits in a corner and weeps.

'You love him?' he asks her.

'Yes,' she admits.

'And he?'

'He also loves me.'

'Then why did you marry me?'

'My family forced me to. He is from a different caste.'

'Caste is all crap. We are all the same. Get up, wipe your tears. I will take you to him. We will reach early morning.'

The young girl can't believe her good luck. She thanks him profusely and they sneak off into the night.

It has just rained, the sky is clear. The moon is full. A bride and her groom are walking back to her village to meet her lover. But the groom is a poet, and before the song, he warms up with a doha, 

'Laali mere laal ki, Jit dekhun tith laal. Laali dekhan main gai, to main bhi ho gayi laal.'  

(As I sought the beloved, I began to see Him everywhere. I was so enraptured that I lost myself  in Him.)

The terrain gets rocky and slushy. After a while, the young girl begins to tire. Her mood drops and she starts crying again.

'What?' 

'Slow down! I cant walk as fast as you,' she cribs.

'Why not? We are going to meet your lover. You should be walking faster than me.' 

'Look at my clothes! Look at all this jewelry! Try walking two steps dressed like this.' 

'All right, I get your point. Ok, sit on my back. We can't afford to slow down.'

So she climbs on his back and he carries her like a child. She is overwhelmed and can't stop crying. To soothe her, Kabir starts humming below his breath. 

As he has intended, her curiosity is aroused.

'Can't hear you. Sing aloud, please,' she requests the master. 

'Naiiharavaaaa humakaa na bhaaveyy, humakaa na bhaaveyy, 

Naiharavaa... aaaaa'

Kabirs voice resounds in the dark night, lighting it up with melody. 

Naiharwa humka na bhave

Sai ki nagari param ati sundar

Jaha koi jaaye na aave

Chand suraj jahaa pavan na paani

Ko sandes pahuchave 

Darad yaha Sai ko sunave 

Bin Satguru aapno nahi koi

Jo yaha raah bataave

Kahat Kabeera sunoh bhai sadho

Sapne me Preetam aave 

Tapan yaha jiya ki bujhaave

Naiharwa

I Don’t Find any Interest in My Parent’s House

My Beloved’s Town is Most Beautiful

However, Nobody Goes or Comes from There

There is no Moon, Sun, Wind or Water There

Then Who Will Take My Message There?

Then Who Will Tell My Pain to My Beloved?

The future cannot be seen

And I quarrel with the past

How Should the Bride go to the House of the Beloved?

Powerful Pangs of Separation are Burning from Inside

Dual Reality is Fashioning a Dance to Its Tune

There is None Other Than the Guru Who is Mine Who Can Tell the Way

Says Kabir Listen oh Aspirant

Your Beloved Will Come in a Dream-like State

That Alone Will Quench the Thirst of your Heart

The innocent girl's entire turbulence flows out.

For a little while after the song, there is silence. A deep, beautiful silence, a vast space where something happens. Something that can change a person's life. Kabir starts wondering if she has fallen asleep, when, all of a sudden, she starts crying again.

'Now what? You hungry?'

'No.'

'Then?'

She is a fifteenth century village girl. But she finds her voice.

'Tore sang jaaongi.' I shall go with you.

He is a fifteenth century weaver. Who's just got wed.

'Pakkaa?' Sure?

'Sau takaa pakkaa.' Hundred per cent sure.

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Author of the book 'A Grasshopper's Pilgrimage', Manjushree Abhinav is also a documentary film maker, teacher, home maker and devotee. She will be conducting a creative writing workshop in Mumbai on Sunday, December 12. To find out more about the workshop or to read her blog, click here.

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Friday Features: Antilla - Mythical Island and Mighty Mansion

by Sanika Tillway

Antilla is named after a
mythical island

Mukesh Ambani recently had a housewarming party with the crème de la crème of high society in attendance at his new home Antilla (named after a mythical island). Billed as the Taj Mahal of the 21^st century, the monstrosity, as I call it, spans 4,00,000 sq ft. With 80 of the city’s who’s who in attendance, it was a rather private affair. This didn’t, however, stop it from making headlines given that everyone who mattered came – Sachin Tendulkar, Aamir Khan, Deepak Parekh, Parmeshwar Godrej, Preity Zinta and Kumar Mangalam Birla among others.

I’d like to give you a perspective of what this house has been planned like. First of all, there was all this brouhaha when reports of Mukesh building a new home first started doing the rounds. Then followed the controversy about the land belonging to the Wakf Board and how Ambani had acquired the property for Rs. 21 crore, far below its market price. But, all said, it’s got what it takes to be, you know, ‘iconic’. Think Antilla and you’re thinking - Ambani, avant-garde architecture, not to mention the big bucks spent on making it the landmark it now is. Maybe now Mukesh is thinking, “That’ll show Anil…” Maybe, he’s also wondering if his brother will avenge the insult by handing him an inflated electricity bill.

I’m just thinking about it from an aam aadmi perspective. What the hell is he going to do with that big a house and just six occupants – his mother Kokila (who will shuttle between the old family home where Anil currently resides and Antilla), his three children and wife Nita. The house is staffed by six hundred employees; making it about a hundred staffers per person (I tend to do the math in weird things). Three helipads, a four floor view of the Arabian Sea, each family member having a personal gym, swimming pools, ballrooms, lounges and the list is endless. What bothers me is that there is more focus on projecting it as a landmark than a home. Maybe, the media is at fault. What would worry plague me had it been my home, is why my home is being made out to be a luxury resort cum royal palace (the ballrooms have actually been compared to the Palace of Versailles). Is that really what a home is supposed to be about?

Crystal Chandeliers in the Ballroom
occupy 80% of the ceiling

Is a home not about warmth and love? Isn't it about the place you know you can head to knowing that even if you are not wanted anywhere else, this is one place that is rightfully yours; you don’t have to own, it could be your parents’ or rented or anything else that works for you? I’m thinking what  would I do in a house that has less family and more randoms available at my beck and call. Seriously, I’d feel like I’m sitting in an office with 600 people swarming around me. But, I guess when you have the dough (as also ample space, in this case), its okay for a home not to seem like a home. I’m thinking if it would be any different for Mukesh, zipping in and out of the elevators at his new residence, the same way he would in his office. Doesn’t he ever want to get out of his disinfected, air-conditioned aura to go to a real home?

Nine elevators line the lobby

Of course, if you were Mukesh Ambani, you’d have more important things to worry about, wouldn’t you? Like how to wage war against your brother about who deserves more gas. Or whether Nita will be comfortable using her new Airbus 319? Or if he can sue Bhajji for lifting Nita after Mumbai Indians won a match? Or what his mother thought of his housewarming party compared to the party that Anil hosted the same night?  You see, when you are one of the richest guys in the world, you have more important things on your mind apart from a home. So what if it becomes the talk of the town? After all, it is not aam being an Ambani.

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Sanika Tillway is a 21 year old student of Chartered Accountancy who likes to unleash the child within at every given opportunity.  Her interests include writing, reading, sleeping, talking and making random observations about people. To chit-chat with her, or to get some tips for your money laundering ways, click here.

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Son of God

by Mervin Naik

Image Source

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In Greek mythology Zeus is the "Father of Gods and men" and the God of sky and thunder. He is known for his erotic escapades which resulted in many godly and heroic offspring. This short is a take on what it would've been like had Zeus to come to earth and ask for help from one of his earthly offsprings, take for example, a modern day Hercules, who didn't have a clue, he was indeed, the son of a God.

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It was like a war. Zeus, angry and at full power, going head on, against all the other gods, a bolt of lightning here, a loud clap of thunder there. I could almost reach out of my window and touch the next streak of lightning, if it didn’t instantly turn me into ashes that is.

I tried hard to focus on what I was supposed to do. Calculus! I hate calculus! Just as much as I hated jumping out of my seat every time it boomed. CRAACCK!! Another one! And the loudest so far! I hate it!

That’s when I saw him. I was confused and stared at him wide-eyed as I tried to compute the meaning of this intrusion. When the full effect of it hit me I blanked out. Just like that! Snap! And I didn’t feel a thing.

When I came to, I screamed. I would’ve run if I wasn’t lying down on the floor; would have made a mad dash for the door and right into the storm raging outside. It wasn’t loud anymore. My mind was reeling. How much of this can I possibly handle? My brain was working in overdrive and my head was hurting because of it. Or was it because I’d thumped my head against the floor when I landed? Could be both, and boy it hurt!

He was staring me in the face and loomed over me. I half thought he was going to kiss me! “I’m a dude!” I wanted to tell him. “I just have long hair,” would’ve been my next sentence. But all that came out was a scream. I tried to get up but he pinned me down. “Stop screaming!” it was almost a command. “And stop behaving like you're being molested.” His voice, it was almost booming. He then helped me off the ground, although it felt more like I was being lifted off the ground by my arms and being propped on my feet.

That’s when I realised how tall he was. I tried to be calm but I’d never seen someone so huge! He must’ve easily been seven feet tall if not more.

“WAITAMINIT! I know you! Aren’t you? You’re! You ARE!”

Friday Features: Sceptical

by Siddhant Mehta

As it stands in this world of ours, scepticism has the right to call itself realism from time to time. It’s a safe bet, you see. Nobody has anything to lose if you bet on the Sun to rise in the east or if you expect rain to be made up of water. What about betting for the other guy? Well, when it turns out to be true, and miraculous things do happen, it makes for great stories and hopefully you can get a three picture-deal with Guy Ritchie.

This doesn’t happen very often. Try and sell magic once in a while and you will find that with a willing audience and the power of belief, you could actually get close to a sale. There was an advertisement in a magazine about a shoe. Good stories about magic and miracles usually start with an advertisement or some sort of promise. This happened to be about shoes.

Friday Features: Designer Dilemma

by Mark Rocha

I’ve never really understood the compulsive nature of women to ‘shop’ without really buying anything. The concept of ‘window shopping’ – deception if you will, is something that I’ve never really been on board with. And they make it so convincing too! Right down to, ‘if only they had it in a lighter peach, I would have bought it’ – no you wouldn’t have; and besides, men only see sixteen colours – plums and peaches are just fruits to us – more on that later. Thankfully, this is not one of those narratives where the pretend world of makeup and wardrobe changes drive a man up the horses arse; this is more about those so called ‘designer labels’ that women must have!

I’m with my wife shopping for clothes at ‘Mango’, (there were others before, and a lot more after!) because she feels she needs a ‘new look’. A couple of hours later (yes – that’s how long it takes), she goes to the counter with a variety of seemingly wearable ‘things’ – because that’s what they are really. At times I can never understand how certain ‘tops’ or ‘bottoms’ ... uh ... work? For lack of a better word? Till she’s wearing it, it’s just cloth for me more often than not. Anyway, after the nice man makes it through pricing the wardrobe of Elizabeth Taylor, I’m presented with a total that rivals the gross national product of New Mexico where their only definition for ‘Mango’ is ‘fruit’ (and it’s much cheaper)!

It’s crazy! Why spend so much money on clothes that are wearable, only because everyone knows where you got it from?

Friday Features: Hair Raising Times by Sunder Sharma

by Sunder Sharma

Me and my barber never see things eye to eye. For one thing, he’s always doing his dirty work behind my back. I’ve never come out of his shop without feeling like a pale-face who’s had a close brush with the Red Indians – happy to have his scalp intact!

But this has been a part of my life from my early youth. My parents recount that it would take four strong men to hold me down while the village barber ran his shears over my head. The fashion then, among the elders, was a close cropped head – so close, as a matter of fact, that after the barber finished one would have a tough time believing that he didn’t use his razor instead of the scissors.

Friday Features: Spark in Time by Suyash Shreekant

She never speaks, she keeps her past concealed. A prized possession of the world’s most secretive and exclusive brothels; her future streams in the room through a tiny peephole on her door.

The rules allow only one customer every night. David’s lucky day is the 6^th of November 1999. His right hand clenches a bunch of golden keys, of colorful doors, each offers more exotic an experience than the most imaginative wet dream. He knows not why and would reckon all his life what was so special about smooth sky blue door.