I finally find
that silken touch
in the murky depths
of the Tofu section.
I finally find
that silken touch
in the murky depths
of the Tofu section.
An awkward silence
hangs in the air.
Her casual beauty
makes me aware of things,
I didn’t know existed
A racy heartbeat,
a heavy breath
a tied tongue.
I can’t wait longer
I need to know
I muster up courage,
‘Alexa, what’s the forecast for today?’
The moonlight reflects off her disheveled hair. Their fingers brush gently. She looks into his eyes and whispers.
“What kind of idiot flushes toothbrushes down the toilet ‘by mistake’?”
“We need thirty-one of those,” Rahul pointed inside the store, “The Boss was very specific about that.”
A well-aimed brick sailed through the helpless glass window with a loud crash.
Rashi tiptoed in, her svelte figure deftly avoiding the glass remains. She picked up The Loot with her gloved hands and carefully stashed it away in an airtight container in her backpack. She wished she could contain her nervousness in a similar manner, but her trembling hands wouldn’t listen. After all, The Boss had personally asked for these. One mistake and her partner would have to deal with a gooey mess. Her hands trembled a little more.
“Nice job back there, Rashi. How many did we get?” Rahul asked between deep puffs of breath after they had put a decent distance between themselves and the crime scene.
“Thirty,” Rashi replied, grimacing from a mix of fear and pain. She knew that The Boss never settled for less, even if it was only one less. She also knew, a bit too late, that heels weren’t the most appropriate footwear for a heist. She proceeded to curse The Boss and every actress that had been part of a heist movie under her breath.
“Are you sure you haven’t missed counting one?”
Rashi nodded, massaging her traumatized foot.
Rashi nodded again.
Rahul paused to catch up with some more of his breath and thoughts. The Boss still hadn’t approved his request for company conveyance and he was too old for these post-heist sprints. He brushed his hands through his graying hair, out of nervous habit, before looking at his mobile phone’s clock. It was two hours to midnight. Not only was he already too old, he constantly continued to get older. The last of his twenties would sail out of reach in a few minutes. He should have been partying with his friends, getting drunk beyond recognition, yet here he was, carrying out dangerous nocturnal heists instead. The thought of his friends jolted him out of his musings. It reminded him that most of them had been bumped off over the years because they had failed to carry out The Boss’ missions. He needed to focus, regrets could wait until he sponsored the next installment of his shrink’s obscenely generous pension plan.
“We must find one more,” Rahul said.
“But…from where? We just got every single one, didn’t we? We’ll have to wait until the next batch.”
“We can’t wait that long. We have less than two hours to get these to The Boss. He explicitly mentioned that he wanted them by midnight. He even had The Glint in his eye when he mentioned it.”
“Not The Glint, no,” Rashi backed away instinctively.
“Yes, The Glint,” Rahul assured her.
“Do…do you have a plan?”
“I do. We’ll need another brick.”
The second well-aimed brick of the night sailed through the Jaguar’s windshield, making the obligatory loud crash. The security alarm wailed into the night. Rahul and Rashi receded into the proverbial underbelly of a dark corner in the driveway and waited.
The Maker, as his patrons called him, stirred in bed. Years of paranoia, arising from a mix or real and imaginary attempts to steal The Formula, had turned him into a light sleeper. The frantic cries of his Jaggu did not go unheard for long.
The front door of the duplex house soon opened with a thud. Rahul waited intently behind the bush. A generous belly poked out of the door as if to scout the area, before being followed by the rest of The Maker’s middle-aged figure out into the adjoining driveway. He let out a scream as his eyes fell on the grisly remains of his Jaggu’s windshield, or at least tried to, before he was ambushed by an age-defyingly nimble Rahul. A quick tap on The Maker’s head by Rashi, using the multi-talented brick, brought the driveway scene to a close.
The Maker woke up a couple of minutes later, a little groggy, and tied to one of his own chairs.
“Give us The Formula, if you want to live,” Rashi growled on cue.
“Yes, give us The…um, no, that’s not what we want,” Rahul scowled back.
“No! What’ll we do with The Formula? He’s The Maker, not us. Only he knows how to make more of them the right way.”
The Maker, interjected at this moment, “Are you saying that you’ve broken into my house, at this ungodly hour, to make me make you a…”
“Yes, and it should be done in the next sixty minutes,” Rahul interjected.
“Impossible. What if I refuse?”
“That Jaguar of yours still has a few windows left, I notice,” Rashi replied.
“Nothing’s impossible for The Maker,” The Maker corrected himself.
Rahul untied The Maker and walked him to The Workshop.
“Now, don’t get any ideas. Just do as you’re told and no one or thing shall get hurt,” Rahul spelled out the standard threat.
The Maker rolled his eyes, “Who do you think I am? Iron Man? I assure you that I won’t create suit-of-war in there. Now leave me alone. I need to concentrate.”
Rahul stepped back with his hands raised in a mock gesture.
“Sheesh. This one has a temper, doesn’t he? I certainly wouldn’t want to break into his home again anytime soon.” Rashi said.
Rahul looked at his phone’s watch. Ninety minutes to midnight. They might just make it in time.
That’s when another one of the clearly overworked brick fraternity made its way through the workshop’s window. They knew how to make an entry, one had to give them that. They could have taught a thing or two to the burly men in masks, who ungainly followed the brick in, negotiating the remaining bits of glass.
The leader of the burly pack scanned the occupants, “Rahul? What are you doing here? You know you aren’t supposed to be part of this mission.”
“Don’t tell me what I can or cannot do, Sharma. You’re not the boss of me.”
“Well, no, but The Boss is the boss of you. Didn’t he explicitly forbid you to mess with this heist?” He paused before adding, “Oh, and thanks for outing my name, you idiot. So much for my disguise.”
“Right,” Rahul rolled his eyes, “The Maker now knows that his house has been broken into by one of the two million Sharmas in the city. You’re done for.”
“Yeah? Well…whatever,” Sharma retaliated as best he could.
Sharma looked at Rashi’s backpack and eventually two and two were put together, “Hold on. What’s in there? Is that The Loot? Were you responsible for the break-in at the Master’s store?”
Sharma pointed a gun at Rahul’s head. “I should have known. You’re always trying to one-up everyone in front of The Boss. Well, not this time. I’m not as stupid as poor gullible Verma. Hand the goodies over.”
“What happened to Verma?” Rashi couldn’t help but ask.
“Not now, Rashi,” Rahul snapped.
“Don’t want to tell her about Verma? I guess there is some remorse in there after all.”
Rahul gritted his teeth. “Let it go, Sharma.”
“Never. Verma and I had a bond that went beyond rhyming surnames. It still pains me when I think of what you did to him.”
“What…happened to him? He’s not dead, is he? Did Rahul kill him?” Rashi asked the most obvious question considering her present company.
”Dead? Hah. If only. No. Verma is very much alive. If you can call that a living.” he paused, trying to power through the pain. “He’s now a…a…soft…software developer,” he blurted out.
Rashi cringed. A sudden wave of nausea swept over her.
“And Rahul here was the one that told him he should become one. He even funded his education,” Sharma added.
“He was good at it! You didn’t see how his face lit up every time he made those Matrix-like things happen to his screen.”
“The things from the bullet scene?” Sharma interjected.
“No, not the bullet scene! I mean those green moving things…you know…the stuff hat…hack…hackers do?”
Exasperated, Rahul looked at Rashi, searching for support.“It was his calling dammit! Surely you understand why I did that, Rashi? He was not good enough to be one of us. He had…other talents. Surely, in this day and age, we can allow a man to live life as he pleases, even if it is strange and unnatural, without judging him.”
Rashi continued to give him an admonishing stare.
“He told me he wanted to become a full-stack specialist!” Rahul tried going all out in one final attempt at justifying his actions. “He said his idol was Bjarne Stroustrup!”
“Those aren’t real words and you know it,” Sharma interjected.
Rashi nodded in agreement.
Rahul looked crestfallen.
Rashi took this opportunity to snatch the gun from Sharma’s outstretched hand.
“Son of a…,” Sharma began.
Rahul kicked his legs from under him in one smooth motion.
“…unnggggh,” Sharma ended as his head hit the ground, the impact knocking him out immediately.
Rashi cocked back the gun.
The rest of the group, displaying an alertness clearly lacking in their leader, quickly clambered out the window.
“Take your boss with you!” Rashi cried out after them, to no avail.
“Those guys were really bad at their job,” she said.
“Rashi, you must believe me about Verma…” Rahul tried again.
“I couldn’t care less about Verma,” Rashi stopped him mid-sentence.
“She is done,” The Maker announced as he walked onto the erstwhile battle scene.
He held up the finished product such that the tube-light glinted off its shiny edges.
“A thing of beauty. As usual,” he remarked, clearly satisfied.
Rahul snatched it out of his hands and added it to the contents of Rashi’s airtight container.
“Number thirty-one. We’re done,” Rashi said.
Rahul looked at his watch. “Fifty minutes to midnight. Let’s go.”
“Wait…what should we do with Picasso here?” Rashi asked.
Rahul thought for a bit, and replied, “Kill him.”
The Maker, petrified, took a step back.
Rashi looked quizzically at Rahul.
“I’m kidding, I’m kidding. You should have seen the look on your face!” he laughed.
Rashi rolled her eyes. The Maker tried to stop hyperventilating.
“Let him be. He won’t call the police. He knows better than to mess with The Boss’ people.” Rahul said.
“He does, doesn’t he?” Rashi looked at The Maker. The Maker nodded between gasps of breath.
“And what about Sharmaji here?” Rashi pointed to the limp figure on the floor.
“Ugh. I guess we’ll have to take him with us. I think I saw a dumpster around the corner.”
“All right then. Pick a side and lift.”
The Lair had an air of celebration around it when Rahul and Rashi got there. Rahul spotted The Boss immediately. He was tough to miss, dressed in a crisp white suit – the staple of mafia bosses and fashion-challenged youths through the ages. Rahul went up to him and greeted him with perfectly executed pecks on the cheeks that would have made the author of The Dummy’s Guide to Mafia Etiquette proud. Rashi was too low in the organizational hierarchy chain to act as if she existed and decided to stand behind Rahul while resolutely staring at her feet.
“Aren’t you early? I thought The Secretary would have called you in a bit later,” The Boss said, surprised.
Rahul dramatically took out the container from Rashi’s backpack and held it up to The Boss.
“Tell me that’s not The Loot, Rahul,” he said, his mafia boss sense tingling.
“Damn it, Rahul. You know I had assigned this to Sharma.”
“I’m sorry for disobeying you. But this was the first time that you’ve ever asked Sharma to lead an important job instead of me. I may be getting older, but I’m still better than Sharma. I had to prove to you that I could beat him to it.”
The Boss let out a disappointed sigh before raising his hands to get the attention of The Secretary. She seemed to be in panic mode.
She came over when she saw the wave and began, “Neither Sharma nor Rahul is picking up my call. I don’t know what…” she stopped when she spotted Rahul and Rashi.
“Why aren’t you picking up my calls?” she asked Rahul, agitation writ on her thin, pointed eyebrows.
“I was…uh…a bit busy,” Rahul replied.
“Yes, he was busy getting us The Loot,” The Boss interjected, making no attempt to hide the exasperation in his voice, and handed over the container to her.
The Secretary took The Loot and inspected its contents. It caused her to stretch her already furrowed brows to the limit.
“What happened to Sharma?” she asked.
“Nothing permanent,” Rahul replied, with as much nonchalance as he could manage at the moment.
The Secretary shrugged her shoulders and walked away with The Loot.
“Wait here and don’t move,” the Boss gave the two of them a curt order and walked away in The Secretary’s direction.
Rahul and Rashi suddenly became very aware of the fact that The Lair was now empty. The gang hovering around them had disappeared at some point during their conversation.
“Should we be panicking right now?” asked Rashi. She had been watching the proceedings from afar and quietly evaluating alternative professions.
The lights in The Lair turned off, plunging the entire place into darkness.
Rashi clutched Rahul’s trembling hand.
“Shhh…” Rahul shushed her, trying to listen, his ears sifting through the silence for danger.
Rashi reached for her phone in her bag in order to use its backlight.
“Don’t,” Rahul whispered. ”The darkness is a disadvantage for them too.”
“Yes. We’re surrounded. And they’re slowly closing in.” Rahul’s instinct honed by years of training which included playing dark-room with his cousins in his ancestral home, had notified him of the tip-toeing figures that had probably encircled them by now. He searched his lint lined pockets for something that could be used as a weapon. Rashi took out the pocket knife she always kept in her socks for emergencies.
The figures came closer.
The lights flickered back on. Rashi picked a direction randomly and flung her knife. An explosion reverberated through the air. Someone screamed.
“SURPRISE!!!” The figures yelled in unison.
The Boss led the cheer from the front. The Secretary appeared startled, one of the balloons in her hand had just exploded. She shrugged it off and joined the shrill rendition of ‘Happy Birthday dear Rahul’. No one noticed the knife sticking out of the wall behind her.
Rahul looked at his watch. It was midnight.
The Boss walked him to the table where The Loot was spread out waiting for him.
“There you go. Thirty-one cupcakes and thirty-one candles. Make a wish and blow out the candles.”
Rashi had snuck out in the meantime and removed the evidence of her heroics from the wall.
She looked towards the table as Rahul paused to make a wish.
“Why cupcakes?” she asked the goon standing next to her.
“Cakes are for sissies. And besides The Boss hates them,” he replied.
“Of course,” Rashi joined in the chorus.
Rahul looked at the offending thirty-first cupcake that had ruined his day.
“I’ve only turned thirty – why did we need thirty-one cupcakes?” he asked the Boss.
“Isn’t it obvious? The last one’s for good luck.”
“Of course,” Rahul let out a tired smile, before proceeding to blow out the candles.
|The steak was succulent. The chicken juicy. The entire meal had a certain…character to it. He tucked into it with unusual abandon. She finally spoke when he’d finished licking his fingers.
“You like it?”
“Like it? It’s magical! Where did you find such a genius chef?”
“Oh, he’s good, no doubt. But the magic here lies in the ingredients and also,” she hesitated before adding, “the meticulousness with which they were sourced.”
“Stop!” My companion smashed his fist on the bar counter, spilling some of his beer in the process. “I’m not going to listen to any more of this tripe. I can see the twist coming a mile away. She served him a human being, didn’t she?” he asked.
I smirked in that annoying way which always got on people’s nerves.
“No, she didn’t. How predictable would that be? And who said anything about there being a twist anyway?”
“Fine. Continue then,” he said.
“Where was I now…oh right…the source.”
“Where do you source your food from?” he asked.
“We grow it ourselves,” she replied.
“What’s your secret?” he asked as he not-so-discreetly mopped the remaining juices off the plate with his fingers.
“Our farm animals are on a special diet. So are our vegetables. We don’t use ordinary feed or fertiliser.”
“She grinds humans up into the fertiliser and the feed, doesn’t she? Is that it? It’s even lamer than I thought!”
“Why are you being so morbid? And I do agree — that would have been very lame. Now, if you don’t have any more ‘theories’, shall I continue?”
He nodded. A cold, steely determination had crept into his eyes.
I smirked again.
“I’d love to meet and compliment the chef in person. This was the best meal I’ve ever had in my life,” he said.
“I’ll summon him immediately,” she made a couple of gestures at the server.
A few seconds later, a voice coughed behind him. He looked up to see a tall slender man in a chef’s hat standing over him.
“Well, that was quick,” he said.
“Meet The Count, our head chef. He has apprenticed under a lot of culinary masters and is now a man who possesses the sum of their skills. He’s absolutely lapped up their talents, so to speak,” she said.
The Count smiled at him. He smiled back. The Count’s teeth glinted.
“This, sir, isn’t chic-lit!” I said with as much indignation as I could muster.
“What’s your secret?” he asked.
“Would you believe, cauldrons? I always cook in cauldrons. And I like to sing with the other chefs while I do it,” The Count replied.
“That’s…interesting,” he said.
“Surely, there must be something else?” he probed further. He knew that The Count was hiding something.
The Count hesitated for a bit, then leaned into his ear and whispered.
“Salt. Lots of it,” The Count said. “And a shitload of MSG,” he added with a wink.
“You’re horrible at spotting the twist,” I said. And then I ate him.
Telling that story always gives me the munchies.
Welcome to yet another edition of ‘Dear Know it All'(or DKIA as my millions of readers like to call it). I’d like to take this opportunity to apologise to my millions of readers(have I mentioned them before?) for the slight delay(six months) in getting this edition out. So hold on, sit tight, and say goodbye to those pseudo-know-it-all hacks that you may have turned to in the interim.
Our first question comes from a cricket fan who finds himself lost in the football fever that has gripped the nation. Very current-affairs and all:
I am an honest, god-fearing, hard-working and simple cricket fan. My life was going absolutely brilliantly – I was the life of every party with my abundant knowledge of cricket trivia. People were always in awe when I rattled off scintillating facts like the number of times Sachin Tendulkar has been out on 17, while playing with his collar up, in the second innings of a match, which started on the third Monday of a month. But off-late, things have changed. People don’t seem to be interested in listening to my detailed analysis of Sachin and Dhoni’s favourite nursery rhymes, and how they’ve applied the learnings from them to improve their cover-drives. All they want to talk about is football and some guy with cleanliness issues(messy, I believe he’s called) and Ronaldo(who seems to have made a comeback after fixing his tooth and having grown some hair – people have conveniently forgotten that Sehwag and Bhogle were the pioneers in that field). I decided to watch a game or two but I was extremely disappointed by what I saw. How can I ever get behind a game where mastery over off-side play is considered to be a bad thing? I am losing friends at a faster speed than Ravi Shastri’s tracer bullet and I’m very unhappy. Please help.
– feels like the perpetual thirdman in this cricket match called life
Dear feels like the perpetual thirdman etc. etc.,
This is an extremely serious epidemic that has plagued the cricket-buffs in the country. The ICC has sponsored a lot of research programs to find a permanent cure, but they’re no closer to one yet. One home-grown solution that seems to have worked in alleviating the associated stress for some people is to lock oneself inside a room for a month and watch that channel which shows Sachin making his Sharjah century, all day long. Chanting ‘Whadddaaplaaayaa’ in Tony Greig’s voice seems to bring relief too.
If you absolutely must go out and mingle with the football fanatics in this period, it is advisable to take proper precautions which include memorizing a few phrases:
‘Cricket has been become so commercial! Everything’s fixed!. That’s why I switched to watching a proper sport like football when I was 4.”
“Baichung Bhutia is not the only good player that India has produced, okay? There’s also that guy. You know who I’m talking about!”
“Brazil are favourites. But I wouldn’t discount Argentina, Germany, Italy, Uruguay, Cameroon, Ghana(just list the names of all the teams that are still in the running). This world cup has been so unpredictable!”.
If all else fails just scream the following every couple of minutes:
Is the referee blind??! That was clearly not off-side!”
And now for the most important tip of all – while bluffing your way through these conversations, it’s very important to remember that Manchester United is not playing in the World Cup. Many a reputation has been sunk that way.
The reception for the first two chapters has been very positive and encouraging. A big thanks to everyone who’s stuck around and sent me their comments! Here’s the third chapter of the instalment. Please share it with friends if you like it so that I can reach a wider audience and get more feedback in the process!
Vikram couldn’t get himself to fall asleep. A lot had happened that day. He had landed a new job, met a being from another planet, and most importantly, had prevented himself from making the biggest mistake of his life – making a chef the protagonist of his impending bestseller. The market was obviously ripe for the epic saga of a stranded alien with amnesia, fighting his way back to his home planet against the odds. He was surprised he hadn’t thought of it earlier. Even though Caesar had been very mysterious about what his actual duties would be, Vikram couldn’t wait for the next morning.
He was jarred out of his thoughts by the loud cry of the doorbell, followed by a deluge of impatient knocks. It could only be that infernal interfering neighbour of his, coming to complain about his exercising in the midnight again, Vikram thought. His indignation grew in harmony with the knocking and he opened the door determined to give the man a piece of his mind.
“It’s not even exercise night, you ignorant…” Vikram began.
“Hello Vikram. We need to talk. Can I come in?” Caesar said.
“Uh…sure. Please come in, Caesar.” Vikram said.
Caesar made his way into the drawing room and sat on the sofa. The room, like the entire house, screamed bachelor-pad from every upturned cushion and dirt laced window. It was minimally furnished with the bachelor’s essentials – a recliner, a beanbag, a large television screen and a table to place the junk food on (there were three empty pizza boxes containing the remnants of a thick chewy crust lying on top).
“Please excuse my tone back there, Caesar. I thought you were someone else.” Vikram apologised as he plonked himself on the beanbag.
“It’s all right. I must apologize too – for paying you a visit at this late hour. But I had no choice. I have to talk to you about something that I cannot bring up when Morphy is lurking around.”
“Go on. I’m listening.” said Vikram, intrigued.
“That alien is my chance at redemption, Vikram.”
Caesar paused for dramatic effect.
“Uh…redemption?” Vikram asked.
“I have to get back at Lily and show to her that I have the skills to run a successful restaurant. Do you know what I did the day the review was published?” Caesar asked with clenched teeth.
“Cried yourself to sleep?” ventured Vikram.
“I fired my entire staff.”
“Okay. A tad harsh, perhaps?”
“How was I to know that I wouldn’t be able to hire any replacements? Every chef in the city I’ve approached since, has refused to join my restaurant for the wages I can offer them. And believe me, I’ve approached everybody. Even the guy who listed baking Lego doughnuts as his speciality. I was about to shut shop and resort to adopting a writing career, when I found my saviour.”
“Now look here Caesar, I don’t know what you overheard in the afternoon, but my skills are kinda limited to boiling eggs and microwaving…”
“I meant Morphy.”
“Oh. Right. He cooks well, does he?”
“What? I don’t know. I mean…it doesn’t matter. That’s not what I meant! Just hear me out, will you?”
Vikram looked a bit hurt by Caesar’s tone. Caesar took a moment to regroup and continued.
“You see Vikram, that crash I heard that night – it wasn’t just the sound of an alien spacecraft crash-landing.”
“It wasn’t? I thought you just said it was!”
“It was also the sound of opportunity knocking, Vikram. Opportunity.” Caesar added with a glint in his eyes. It was hard to tell whether it was the glint of a person with a dream in his heart, or of a maniac with homicide on his mind.
“Oh. I see what you did there. Metaphors – such tricky little devils they can be.” Vikram chose to play it safe until he figured out which one it was.
“Do you know how many alien encounters Earth has had in its entire existence, Vikram?”
“None! That’s how many.” Caesar announced emphatically before Vikram could take a stab at it.
Vikram did know the answer to this one – his favourite cartoon strip had carried a series of gags on that last week. He had been amused to learn that the people of Earth had suspected alien handiwork in the creation of the Stonehenge, Easter Island and someplace called Area 51. This had of course been debunked a couple of decades ago – they were just elaborate hoaxes planted by the Mermaids. They were notorious for this kind of humour, and also, they lived for hundreds of years and got bored very easily.
“I could have told the government about Morphy. But what would that get me? A firm handshake from the President’s secretary? No, I knew that someone would be willing to pay through their nose for a genuine certified alien in relatively mint condition. And that’s when I decided to approach the biggest gangster in the city – Michael Smith a.k.a. KorqueScrew. Getting to him wasn’t easy either – I now owe a lot of shady people a lot of shady favours. KorqueScrew jumped at the chance and I’ve negotiated a deal with him that will help put my restaurant back on the culinary map. He’s promised me a lot of money. A lot. Not only that, he’s guaranteed me that he’ll convince any chef I want, to join my restaurant’s staff.”
“You’ve sold Morphy to the Mafia? But what would they do with him? To him?”
“He seemed to be torn between having his scientists perform medical experiments on him, and adopting him as the alien son he never had. I believe having him stuffed and mounted over his fireplace was also an option in the running. Ah well, who really cares?”
“But how can you do that to him?” Vikram asked incredulously.
“What? Do you think that alien wasn’t planning to do something similar to us? He’s not our friend, Vikram. Why else would he have instructions to prevent being detected at any cost? It’s just dumb luck that he lost his memory and couldn’t remember what he was actually sent here for, otherwise we’d all be enslaved and having our cavities probed by prickly little things at this point. Do you want to let them do that to us once he regains his memory? Is that the kind of world you want to leave your children?”
“I still don’t understand why you’re telling me this, Caesar. What does this have to do with me?”
“I like how you get straight to the point Vikram. Very admirable trait. Very.” Caesar moved closer and lowered his voice for effect.
“I want you to do the exchange for me.”
“I want you to help me immobilize Morphy and then go and deliver him to KorqueScrew’s people in return for the money. And a written IOU for the chef-convincing. There’ll be a hefty monetary reward waiting for you when the deed is done.”
“Why don’t you do it yourself?”
“I’m a prominent restaurateur Vikram. I was voted ‘Most likely to be yelled at by a celebrity chef in a reality show’ at college. Imagine what’ll happen to my reputation if word gets out of my involvement with the Mafia. I can’t afford to take the risk.”
“I don’t think I’d want to be involved either. It sounds dangerous and I don’t like the idea of throwing Morphy under the proverbial bus for money.”
“You’re a writer, aren’t you Vikram?”
“Yes. How’d you know? Have you read my line of coloring books?”
“The guy you approached earlier to hire a chef from, called and warned every restaurant in the neighbourhood about you.”
“What a grouch!”
“Do you know what’s common between the last four books on the NYT bestsellers list? They were all crime novels. And for a writer who likes to get under the skin of the character, this would be an opportunity of a lifetime. Picture this – you reach the drop-off point in the dark of the night in a…in a?”
“You reach the drop-off point in the dark of the night in my pickup-truck. Maybe it’s been raining. Maybe it skids on the puddle as you screech it to a halt. You gesture his henchmen to take Morphy’s limp drugged body from the back. You take the briefcases of cash from KorqueScrew. Maybe you smile at him. Maybe he smiles back. Maybe you become friends. Maybe he invites you to one of his famous parties later. Maybe you meet all his Mafia buddies there. Maybe you get in their inner circle. Maybe they give you an in-depth account of their lives, their crimes, their escapes, their triumphs, their failures. You’ll be so deep in the skin of a criminal that it’ll take a very fine pair of tweezers to get you out. Can you see it? Can you afford to lose such an opportunity? Will you?”
Vikram had a dazed look on his face. Caesar did paint a very vivid and enticing picture.
“It’s getting very late, Vikram.” Caesar said as he looked down at his watch. “Why don’t you sleep on it and let me know?”
Vikram nodded instinctively and followed Caesar to the front door.
“Oh, there’s one more thing. The standard disclaimer, as is customary in these kind of dealings, applies. Before you think about refusing my offer or telling anyone about what I spoke about tonight, remember that the head of the Mafia wants something I have, which means my requests to him for tiny favours, however gruesome, will not be refused. So choose wisely. Unlike the three who came before you.”
Vikram was conflicted. On the one hand he would have access to enough material for at least a trilogy of crime novels, with room for a couple of prequels to be thrown in later. But what about Morphy? Could he do this to him? Was he really a potential prober of human crevices? Maybe he’d be doing mankind a favour by turning him in to the Mafia.
Lost in these thoughts, Vikram hadn’t noticed the figure that had shimmied up to his bedside in the meantime.
“Hello.” it said.
Vikram leaped up like an eager student’s hand on hearing a question he finally knows the answer to.
“Relax, Vikram. It’s just me, Morphy.” the figure chuckled.
“Why would you do something like that?!” Vikram shouted once he had managed to gather his wits again.
“I have something very important to discuss with you.”
“Why couldn’t this wait until tomorrow?”
“Because Caesar cannot come to know about it at any cost.”
“At any cost?”
“At any cost.” Morphy replied expressionlessly.
There’s that shiver up the spine again, Vikram thought.
“Go on then. Tell me what this is about.”
“You remember when Caesar and I told you about me suffering from memory loss? It’s not true. It’s a lie I tell Caesar to keep him from suspecting anything.”
“What is there to suspect?”
“Lots. I was sent to Earth by my people for a very important mission. And I need your help to complete it successfully.”
“You’ll have to tell me more.”
“Let me start at the beginning. I’m from Konnit, a planet in the Zimmer galaxy, which is about four thousand light years away from Earth. I was part of the…” Morphy suddenly broke into a coughing fit.
“Would you like a drink of water?” asked Vikram.
“That…would…be…great.” Morphy managed to eke out between his loud coughs.
Vikram got up to make his way towards the kitchen. He stayed in the kind of apartment people tend to describe as ‘small but cosy, with paper thin walls’. So thin that the neighbours could actually listen to each other’s conversations in the quiet of the night, if they really put their mind to it. In fact, Pierre, his neighbour, was awoken by the loud thud even though he was in deep slumber. He attributed it to his peculiar neighbour’s midnightly exercise routine and went right back to getting his eight hours. Vikram did not have the liberty to hear the thud, of course. He was unconscious long before his body slumped to the floor. Morphy was trained to kill a man in fifty-two different ways and to render him senseless in seventy-three. Vikram never stood a chance.
A huge thank you to everyone who took the trouble of reading the first chapter and contacted me to tell me how they felt about it! Furthermore, there haven’t been any casualties reported since I’ve posted it and incidents of eye-gouging seem to have been below the prescribed limit. So, with nervously intrepid feet – here comes the second chapter.
“Send him in,” Goloxinout said to his secretary.
Goloxinout was in a cranky mood. Konnit’s elections were due in another millennium, which meant that he had been forced to do some actual work again. He had twenty meetings lined up in the day and wasn’t looking forward to any of them.“Good afternoon, Mr President.” the visitor said as he threw in a well practiced bow of courtesy.
“What is this about, Xylon?” Goloxinout gestured him to sit.
“We still haven’t been able to establish contact with General Wingo.”
“Ah yes, General Wingo…uh…where is he again?”
“It’s been a year minus five minutes since he set out on his mission to Earth.”
“Right, right. Th-aaat general Wingo. Of course. How does General Wingo like the place?”
“We don’t know. We lost contact with him as soon as he left our atmosphere.”
“Ah. Hate it when that happens. So you want me to name a day after him? General Wingo day? It kinda rolls off the tongue, you have to admit. Maybe a parade too..”
“All in good time Mr. President. But first, we must bring his mission to closure.”
Goloxinout groaned and braced himself. This was generally the point where Xylon gave him a long-winded ‘briefing’ and asked him to make a decision. Oh how he hated making decisions. He had become the president by religiously avoiding making them at every turn. They historically had a knack of coming back to bite him in the behind.
“General Wingo’s was no ordinary mission.” Xylon paused.
“Go on, I’m listening. What was it about?”
“Unfortunately, that’s almost all we really know about the mission.”
“All we know about the mission is that it wasn’t ordinary and that it involved General Wingo going to Earth?”
“You must understand that this mission was commissioned during the Wizium administration, Mr. President. Most of the relevant records were a casualty of the Great Digitizing Fiasco of last year.”
“The one where they shredded all the documents before scanning them?”
“That was the year before last, Mr. President.”
“Ah yes, this was the one with the Unicorn, the barrel of gunpowder and the firefly.”
“And the banjo,” added Xylon.
“Yes, the banjo. Of course,” Glouxinaut stifled a shudder before continuing, “But, I still don’t understand why we’re talking about this mission Xylon.”
“Well, there is one more thing that we’ve been able to find out. I’ve double-checked the information and there’s no doubt about its authenticity,” Xylon added.
“The only mission guideline that we could find, explicitly states that if Captain Wingo doesn’t return or contact us in another…” he looked at his watch and continued, “…ninety seconds, we are supposed to destroy Earth immediately.”
Their eyes darted to the clock on the desk simultaneously.
“Well, hold on a minute. Surely there must be someone who was part of the original mission’s planning committee who should be able to tell us what the mission is actually about?”
“They were all a casualty of the brutal military coup that immediately followed the Great Digitizing Fiasco.”
“The one that I led.”
“Yes, Mr. President.”
“Well, at least I guessed that one right,” Goloxinout said with a sheepish grin.
Their eyes darted back to the clock.
“It looks like he isn’t back in time, Mr. President,” Xylon said as the clock’s hands ticked over the dreaded mark with an air of nonchalance.
Goloxinout furrowed his only brow in deep thought. He liked to think of himself as a man of peace and wiping out an entire civilization always made him feel uneasy. On the other hand, if he acted quickly, he would be able to take a quick afternoon nap before the next meeting.
“Who can take care of this for us?”
“It sounds like a job for the Uranians.”
“Where do I sign?” Goloxinout asked.
“Here, there and there,” Xylon said as he pushed an official looking piece of paper towards him.
“One more thing, Mr. President.”
“There’s more?” asked an exasperated Goloxinout.
“The deadline for announcing the nominations for the Lifetime Award For Excellence In Galactic Science is almost upon us. I’ve scrutinized the contributions and careers of all our eminent scientists and one name stands out – that of Kintonx Goulin.”
“Nominate whoever you please Xylon. I couldn’t care less. Hang on…isn’t he the time machine guy?”
“He called it The Sinetransmorgodor – after his pet dinosaur, I’m told.”
“I’ve read about him. Did he ever remember how to make another one of those contraptions? Anyone who lays their hands on one of those would have access to insurmountable power.”
“I’m afraid the memory loss caused by his journey to the future was quite permanent. He was only ever able to create one. And the whereabouts of that machine, despite extensive search operations that have been carried out in the last few centuries, are still unknown.”
What a pity, sighed Goloxinout, as he stared out into the mesmerizing view of the galaxy that his cabin afforded him. He could have used it to go back and cancel all those meetings. And there were those few years when he had tried to make it as ‘Golo –the mime who talked’ that kept cropping up in the press from time to time.
Yes, he told himself, he could definitely have found good use for the device.
Please share the post using the links below if you like it, so that it can reach a wider audience, and I can get some more valuable feedback. Or don’t, you’ve already done more than your share by reading this post till the end and giving me your feedback – you have given me your feedback, right? 🙂 Thanks!
I’ve always loved to write. The inexplicable joy of reading your own writing a few months down the line while shaking your head in disbelief is reason enough for me.
My biggest literary undertaking began a couple of months ago when I decided to take part in the NaNoWriMo challenge. I wasn’t able to get anywhere near finishing it, but the process was a hoot-and-a-half. With encouragement from some awesome people(you know who you are!), I was able to get a miniscule portion of that story inside me, outside me, and onto the never-ending digital expanse of my word editor. Now, how’s that for imagery?
So, I give to you, humbly(with bowed head and everything) – the first chapter. Please, please, please, let me know what you think. I’ll post the second chapter next week(cue gasps!) if enough people think it’s any worth their time:
“I’m afraid there aren’t any Chefs available on such short notice” said the restaurant manager to the eager gentleman.
“Not even one?” he asked.
“I’m sorry, Sir. Not even one.”
“But I’m desperate! I really need a chef for my book!”
“Pardon me, did you say you needed one for your book?”
“Yeah, I’m writing a book – a novel if you please, which takes an in-depth look into a chef’s life gone awry. It’s gonna make me millions! Since I don’t know anything about chefs, I thought it would be nice to do a bit of research on them. You know how any writer worth his salt is supposed to research his characters to make his writing more believable? It’s called ‘getting under the skin of the character’–”
“Get out!” screamed the manager.
“You want to hire a ‘Grandioso’ chef- one who is sought after by the biggest restaurateurs in the business, for some lousy two-bit book? It’s preposterous!”
“What? It’s not like I won’t pay him. In fact, he can have one percent of the royalties from the book sales, and an honourable mention in the book, although I can’t guarantee that I’ll use his real name. Makes it seem more mysterious, you know?”
“I’m going! I’m going!”
As he walked away, Vikram was still as determined as ever to get his writing career off the ground. He believed that he had found the easiest gimmick to get rich quickly – a writer was always only one best-seller away from becoming a billionaire, after all. And even though he didn’t know much about writing, he believed that ‘researching the character’ was absolutely essential. And since he was writing a mystery trilogy with a chef as its protagonist, he needed a chef!
Vikram looked around as he prodded on towards the bus stop. The street was chock-a-block with fancy restaurants with glass windows. His eyes lit up as he saw a sign on one such window. “Kitchen Help Wanted”, it read.
That amounts to a front row seat to a Chef’s performance, Vikram thought. What better place to observe a chef than in his kitchen.
“I hope you have the requisite experience for the position?” the manager asked him after the preliminaries were complete.
“I can boil eggs.” Vikram ventured.
“You’ve studied cooking at college, of course?”
“I boiled eggs when I was at college.” replied Vikram.
“I’m sorry, but you’re unsuitable–” the manager was interrupted midway by a voice from behind the kitchen door.
”Send him in,” the voice said.
“But Caesar, he doesn’t have the skills or the expe–” the manager began, but was
stopped yet again.
“Just send him in!”
“You heard the boss.” The manager shook his head and pointed Vikram towards the kitchen.
Vikram opened the kitchen door and walked in to see a man in a Chef’s hat chopping some vegetables on a slab. He strode out towards him and stuck out his hand in greeting.
“Hi, I’m Vikram. I saw your want ad outside and–”
“Tell me Vikram, can you boil eggs?”
“Done it all my life.”
“You’re hired,” Caesar said quickly.
Vikram scrutinized the kitchen. It was rectangular in shape and had cabinets at one end and washbasins at the other. A large marble slab encircled a pillar in the centre of the room where the major cooking-related activities seemed to take place. A bunch of wires were plugged into a switchboard near the washbasins. The other end of the wires vanished under a door to the side.
“Where is the rest of the staff?” Vikram enquired, looking around at the empty kitchen.
“What staff?” Caesar said distantly. He seemed to be busy scribbling in a small notebook he had just taken out.
“The cooking staff. You couldn’t possibly run a restaurant kitchen with just two people, can you?”
“Oh, we manage to get by.” His scribbling intensified.
“How?” asked a bewildered Vikram.
“I suppose I’d better tell you all.”
Caesar walked across the room to the door and opened it. Vikram followed him and peered inside with anticipation.
Vikram tried to make sense of what Caesar was pointing at, but all he could see in the room was a bed. A pretty bed. A pretty pink bed covered with yellow polka dots. A pretty pink bed covered with yellow polka dots that was nailed to the ceiling. He was about to utter a bunch of words in Caesar’s direction, mostly beginning with ‘wh-‘, but he had to stop himself. It had come to his sudden notice that the bed had turned into a human form and had floated down to face him. Caesar thought for a moment, decided that no answer from Caesar would be good enough for him at this point, and promptly fainted.
When Vikram came to, he found himself lying on a bed in an unfamiliar room. He tried to recollect how he got there. He looked down at the bed and thought that it reminded him of something but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. He shrugged his shoulders and closed his eyes to go back to sleep. After all, he was tired and the bed was really comfortable. It wasn’t just comfortable, he thought, it was in fact the most comfortable bed he had ever slept on. He was making a mental note to go and seek out the owner post-nap and find out where he could buy himself one, when he remembered.
Caesar heard the loud shriek followed by the even louder banging on the guest room door. He allowed himself a little smile before turning to his companion. “He’s up. Let’s get ourselves introduced.”
His companion floated mistily to the drawing room door and waited patiently as Caesar opened the door and asked Vikram to calm down. He wondered if Vikram would be able to help Caesar out. But then he remembered the others that had come before him. This would end the same way too, he thought. Horribly.
“Morphy, meet Vikram. Vikram, meet Morphy,” Caesar said with every bit of nonchalance he could muster. He always enjoyed these first meetings.
“What is tha-that thing?” squeaked Vikram, as he pointed an accusing finger at Morphy.
“He’s an alien. And stop pointing, it’s rude.” Caesar slapped Vikram’s hand down.
“Nice to meet you, Vikram,” said Morphy.
“Uh,likewise,” was all Vikram could manage to splutter out.
“Maybe you should sit down.”
Vikram looked at the bed nervously.
“Don’t worry, that one’s just a plain old regular bed.” Caesar chuckled.
Reluctant, Vikram sat on the bed. I won’t able to trust any beds for a while, he thought, but was immediately conscious of what an absurd fear that was and tried to compose himself. He looked up at the alien and studied him properly for the first time. Morphy wasn’t very tall, in fact he was probably a few inches shorter than him. He had an perfect, round face and an even more perfect spherical nose to complement it. The other ‘human’ features were pretty run-of-the-mill too. He was dressed in a simple but smart striped t-shirt and long oxymoronic shorts. Morphy could almost have passed as one of us, Vikram thought, if he didn’t have just one eye. Of course, there was also the small matter of his skin being pink and yellow polka dotted and the fact that he can float.
Vikram was trying to sift through his limited encounters with science-fiction novels to remember whether Martians were supposed to be green or pink, when his thoughts were interrupted by Caesar.
“Let me try to tell you all. Again. Please try not to pass out this time.”
“It all started on April 20th, 2054. It was a bright and stormy night. With a full moon which was the cause of the brightness. I think I also saw a shooting star or two go by. Great set up, right?” Caesar began.
“Yes, it was. I should have known something big was going to happen to me that night. I was engrossed in perfecting my signature recipes when I heard something crash… wait, this doesn’t feel right. A story like this deserves to be told–nay, experienced–better! Morphy, prepare the time machine! We’ll let Vikram see the events as they transpired that night in their full glory: in person.”
“I’m afraid the Sinetransmorgodor, or what you call the ‘time machine’, did not survive the milkshake incident. And since I cannot contact my planet anymore, the only recourse for us is to wait until your people invent inter-planetary travel so that I can ask the manufacturers to deliver the spare parts here.”
“How long will it take for us to invent it again?” Caesar asked with hopeful eyes.
“The same time as when I told you last. Five hundred and twenty-four more years.” Morphy said, glowering at Caesar. Vikram couldn’t help thinking that it was an impressive feat to achieve so effectively with a solitary eye.
“Don’t look at me like that! How was I to know that your alien technology is so susceptible to milk-based drinks? And why don’t they have a service centre in this part of the solar system? They’re the people you should be mad at!” said Caesar.
“You guys have a time machine?” Vikram asked.
“Where were we?” said Caesar, changing the subject. “Ah yes, the crash. It wasn’t very loud. I don’t think anyone except me heard it. I went to the back of the restaurant to investigate anyway. I opened the rear door to a sight out of a science-fiction movie. The entire area was covered in smoke and there was a small crater in the backyard. In the middle of that crater, lay what looked like a spaceship – black, orb-shaped, with smoke coming out of its various crevices.”
“It was a spaceship,” Morphy interjected.
“I’m telling it. Let me tell it my way!”
“All right. Go ahead.”
“In the middle of the crater was a spaceship,” continued Caesar while scowling at Morphy. “and before I could do anything, a small door slid open on one side, and a mysterious misty figure stumbled out of it.” Caesar paused for effect.
“It was me,” said Morphy.
“Why did you have to ruin it? Why?” thundered Caesar.
“It’s okay. I kinda guessed it was him anyway. Please continue.” Vikram tried to calm him down.
“Anyone else in my position might have been scared on seeing an alien walk up to them, but I stood my ground. He looked and walked kind of funny – in a sinister manner.” Caesar continued.
“I had just crash landed on an alien planet after travelling for days, maybe even months. I was tired and disoriented.” said Morphy.
“Yeah, yeah. Don’t get your antennae in a bunch.”
“I don’t have antennae! Are you blind? I’ve warned you about the stereotyping before. If you do that again, I’ll–”
“What happened next?” Vikram intervened before the argument could escalate any further.
“I asked E.T. here where he came from. At which point he mumbled something incoherent and passed out. I had to drag his scrawny alien body inside and wait for him to come to. I kept expecting a knock on the restaurant door from someone in the government or the neighbouring establishments, but no one came. Luckily it was almost closing time and I didn’t have any customers to worry about.”
“By that logic, it’s always closing time here.” Morphy winked at Caesar, or he may have just blinked his eye. It was hard for Vikram to tell.
Caesar pretended not to hear the jibe and continued. “When he finally came to, after zoning out for a few hours, I tried to find out where he was from and what he was doing here. I was surprised to find that he could understand and speak English pretty well and–”
“It’s not that hard. My planet’s language had one million, five hundred and twenty eight thousand, three-hundred and twenty-eight consonants and vowels at last count. And I’m sure a few hundred thousand must have been added since I’ve lost contact. I was easily able to master hundreds of your languages, if you can call them that, during the journey.” Morphy said. “Oh, and I wasn’t mumbling incoherently before I passed out, that was Kannada – I was very well prepared.”
“You learned English and Kannada and hundreds of other languages during the journey. Right. That is, if you remember that part of the journey correctly, and I doubt you do.”
“Why do you say that?” asked Vikram.
“He says that because he’s a jerk, and also because I seem to be suffering from what you call short-term memory loss. I suspect it may be because of something that happened during the journey, but I can’t be sure.”
“Oh, how bad is it?” asked Vikram.
“He can’t even remember why he came to our planet.”
“All I remember is that I’m on an extremely confidential mission and my presence must not be detected at any cost. At any cost whatsoever.”
Vikram felt a small shiver down his spine as he heard that even though there wasn’t a hint of malice evident on Morphy’s face.
“You still haven’t answered my original question.” Vikram turned to Caesar.
“Ah, yes. How do we manage without any staff, you ask? We manage because no customer has set foot in this restaurant for weeks. Not since that cretin, Lily Legume, wrote that scathing review of my restaurant in her Bestaurant Guide.” Caesar clenched his fists. “Oh, how I despise that woman.”
“But, if there aren’t any customers, why did you hire me? How do I fit into all this?”
“Very snugly, Vikram. Very snugly.”
Please share the post using the links below if you like it, so that it can reach a wider audience, and I can get some more valuable feedback. Or don’t, you’ve already done more than your share by reading this post till the end and giving me your feedback – you have given me your feedback, right? 🙂 Thanks!
Welcome to yet another edition of Dear Know-it-all(DKIA) – the place where I heal the world one question at a time. Our first question today comes from a lucky someone who’s found his soulmate but is a tad apprehensive about how to approach her:
I’m in love. I knew that she was the one as soon as I landed on her Facebook profile. She was a friend of a friend of a friend of a friend of a friend. It was like we were meant to be together. The other three women I was stalking on Twitter and Foursquare paled in comparison. I knew that I couldn’t just send her any old introductory message. So, I toiled, and I toiled and then I toiled some more, then slept for a while, and then there was some more toiling until I came up with this:
Roses are red,
Violets are blue,
I wanna makes,
Fraanship with you.
What do you think?
– Desperately hers
Dear desperately hers,
I must confess that I like your style. There are only two ways to woo a girl – the way of the gentleman and the way of the creep. I like how you’ve honed in on the latter perfectly. Let’s face it, it’s much less work. Imagine bending down to lay your jacket in every Bangalore puddle you come across in this rain! And let’s not forget those skyrocketing dry cleaning bills.
I love the poem. Just one minor bit of feedback – violets aren’t really blue, they’re violet.
Ah, true love! I’m always happy to help it along. Our second question was called-in via phone by someone who has complete disregard for the law:
I am currently travelling from Mumbai to Delhi by air for the first time. Midway into the flight, the pilot started telling us about the weather outside and the route that he was going to take. A quick check on my phone(luckily I had the required maps offline because it failed to connect to the internet) revealed that it was a very roundabout way of getting there. I quickly waved the air-hostess over with my phone and asked her to tell the pilot to turn the plane around. She stared at me with a look of horror, screamed something about it being every man for himself and jumped out of the plane with her parachute. Now one emergency landing later, I find myself alone in the plane and the authorities seem to be on their way. So, I’m calling you to ask what just happened?
– flying newbie
Dear flying newbie,
This’ll teach you to pay attention to the air-hostess when she makes her safety announcements. Studies have shown that mobile phones in airplanes are the biggest cause of airplane crashes, way ahead of pilots doing wheelies after playing beer pong and the riots resulting from the airline running out of vegetarian meals. I hope they lock you up and throw away the key.
Such irresponsible behaviour always gets under my skin!
Well, that’s it for another edition of DKIA, try not to do anything stupid before I return. And if you do, please keep it to yourselves.
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