A Row of Planets

11 Wednesday Jan 2012

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A Row of Planets

Arin poked his nose out from under the sheet and into the cutting air.

‘What if Mom finds us here?’

‘Shh. Don’t be so loud.’

‘Ok.’

The 7.00 PM news hadn’t illustrated the piece with the usual tacky animations. Inside their imaginative heads, the children had. Quite clearly, too. They never doubted what they saw. After all, it matched with the diagram in Di’s science textbook.

That winter night, a clear starry sky enveloped the three as they lay on the cold terrace floor with only a thin mat under and a thin sheet over. The most they could carry without grown-ups noticing; though Mom did say Kanaad looked plumper, perhaps a result of the excellent dinner she cooked.

A freezing hour later, the planets hadn’t showed up.

‘Look Di, Arin’s fallen asleep.’

The two shook the poor boy awake.

‘Did all the planets form one straight line like the picture in your book, Di?’ Groggy and knees tucked near his belly, Arin looked at his sister.

She was a pitiless eight-year old. ‘You missed it,’ she turned to face him. Beside her, Kanaad nodded with glee.

‘Oh.’ Arin was too sleepy to cry.

‘And you missed Di’s story about aliens,’ said Kanaad.

‘There really are… aliens?’

‘Yes. All around us. Invisible when they want to be. Shape-shifters. Transparent. Colourful. Plant-like. Moth-like. Sometimes,’ Di rubbed her eyes. ‘Human-like. Their ways are strange. You may keep talking to us, play with us and never ever know if Kanaad or I are one.’ Di’s eyes went oddly still in the scanty moonlight. Next door, Fluffy howled.

‘It’s cold here. I want to go to my room.’

‘No, Arin. Mom will hear you.’

‘No she’ll be snoring.’

‘Go, then. Don’t scream if you see an alien lurking around. When astronomical events like these happen, they often party on earth and get very, very hungry.’

Arin imagined grey-faced, spindly tall beings dancing on a bizarre Bollywood number he’d seen on MTV.

Kanaad gave a faint snore. Di ignored it. ‘And tonight, it must have been easy for them to zoom over here, as all the planets had arranged themselves in one line.’

‘I’ll stay here, then.’

A shooting star whizzed across.

Then another.

‘When will you two go back, Di?’

‘Just before the sun comes up. When Mom’s alarm rings, we’ll run down to our rooms, before she comes into the hall.’

‘You’ll really stay up till then?’

‘Yes.’

‘Di , you really saw all the planets in one row?’

‘Yes! Ask Kanaad.’

‘Saturn too?’

‘Yep.’

‘Will you wake me up if I fall asleep?’

‘Um.’

Much later in the freezing early hour, when the last bat had screeched and the first sparrow had chirped; Mom and Dad climbed up the stairs to watch the sunrise. Three small forms lay on the mat. Never had they seemed so alien and so dear to their mother as she watched them huddled and cuddled together. When the surprise wore off, she smiled, remembering the news.

Mom looked up at the orange sky, then reached down to gently run her hand through their hair and planted warmth on each cold cheek while Dad brought up some blankets.

—

©vaidehi patil 2012

Solution

09 Friday Dec 2011

Posted by in Fiction, Thought Bubble, Writing

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‘Why not?’

Her brother never understood. Devayani threw aside the cube, grabbed his tiny frame by the shoulders and shook him hard, suddenly not sure if he mocked her.

‘Because it’s a puzzle!’

Confused black eyes blinked at her. Sahaj struggled free, frowning. ‘It is. I know. A puzzle. And I solved it too. Ow…’ He massaged his shoulders. ‘What did you do that for?’

‘I should be asking you that.’ Devayani pointed at the mess on the floor.

He ignored her and lay down on the tiled floor, propped on his elbows. Orange-green-blue stains shone on his chubby palms and sunshine yellow tee.

‘I’ll tell mom you spoiled your new t-shirt.’

‘Um.’ He was already flipping through Noddy’s new adventure.

‘…Sahaj?’

‘What?’

‘Nothing.’ She began wiping the paint from the floor, beside the Rubik’s cube with its six, bright, painted sides.

© vaidehi patil 2011

The Missing Ingredient

05 Monday Dec 2011

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The hissing sound of cracking cumin seeds filled the house. Nose and ears alert, Rahul squirmed in his room with self-pity and hunger.

His seven-year old logic didn’t agree. Why would he, Rahul, apologize to Mrs. Verghese when it was Rohan who’d locked her door and run away? No he wouldn’t. Yet he tried hard to feel the guilt for his father’s sake; remembering the disappointed, angry face.

He flung the comic across the bed.

Rumble.

Nothing he did helped to ignore sounds from his belly. His favourite superhero chose to fly around the city with his girlfriend and not rip off alien limbs. For more than a third of the book. Why would anyone do that? Why, why? The weaver-bird he liked to observe on a Tamarind branch outside the window wasn’t showing up either.

Idiot bird. Useless Duperman. 

He pushed his face against the cool pane, nose flattened. The peculiar nest he’d seen woven twig-by-twig swung gently in the early monsoon breeze. Flecks of brown transferred onto the glass from Rahul’s lips.

Chocolates, he’d discovered, didn’t taste good when had as dinner, and then as breakfast. Strange, because he’d always enjoyed an overdose.

Dad’s not going to feed me. He said so. I wish I’d opened the door before he got all angry and worked up.

Disaster. There were none left for lunch. Rahul felt through the shiny wrappers strewn across the bed, hopeful to discover an uneaten tile or two. Even a Badbury’s would do. Harsh, crinkling sounds confirmed the worst. What to do? Smells from the kitchen enticed him, and yet sulk prevailed like it had the previous night and the next morning. Is that potato-brinjal curry?

The next rumble sounded like a disgusting burp. Rahul giggled; then quickly suppressed it. Time to act.

Emerging from his den, he tiptoed across the hall and stood near the table from where he could see his father in the kitchen. The sound was louder than normal. Carrot pieces appeared to be of different lengths. Onion peels littered the floor.

So dad’s still angry. 

What to do now? Rahul was hoping his father would’ve forgotten the whole deal and expected him at the table; mostly because he was his father. He climbed on a chair as silently as possible, legs dangled, chin rested in hands.

I am really, really sorry, dad. I’ll never again latch neighbours’ front-doors and run away.

Logic said that may imply he’ll simply latch the front-doors and stay put, instead of fleeing. Now that would not do.

I am sorry, dad. I’ll apologize to Mrs Verghese later today.

That’d surely make his father send him to face the mean, child-unfriendly woman. And for no fault of his. Her own son locked her door, did she even know that? Rahul smiled. Rohan is awesome.

Dad, I’m sorry. Can we forget everything and have lunch now?

Lunch. He wondered what was being cooked. His father was an inventor. Tandoori idli. Who’d ever think of that? Sago-nut crackers. Green tomato curry with lots of potato and lamb mutton. Yum. Slurp. Rumble.

Five long minutes later, Rahul discarded all apologies churned out by a food-deprived brain. He wondered if the weaver-bird had returned with a beakful of bugs. Never able to see the young chicks, he’d heard them chirp from deep within the stomach-shaped hollow of the nest. He imagined the hatchlings being naughty. The angry weaver-bird would then refuse to bring bugs. What would happen? They didn’t even have chocolates in their nest. No worm-filled, ant-cored brown bars. Not even bugglegum. No Wriggley’s gum in their Nestlé. Ha ha.

He looked through the tiny opening in the wall separating the kitchen and the table. Its narrow ledge served as a counter for passing ready food out to the table. There’s nothing on it.

Rahul watched his father’s profile, sprinkling rock salt over something. He tilted away, unsure if he wanted to be noticed. A pan on high flame sizzled to a boil and overflowed. His father nearly dropped the salt pot in a hurry to save the contents. A steel ladle dropped all the the way from the edge of the counter to the floor. Harsh metal-on-marble sound broke the relative silence of the simmering pans. Watching his dad struggle in the kitchen, Rahul felt upset about something he couldn’t pinpoint at, like an itch on the palm.Out of nowhere, he thought of his mum, and that coupled with the sight before him brought a lump to his throat. He looked away.

Often when punished, the wilderness next to where they lived offered distraction in the form of a local Animal Planet show through the open balcony door. A corner near the table where he was made to stand post scoldings was directly opposite, enabling a green view of the patch of trees which marked the beginning of a hill. Rahul would pass punishment time looking out for monkeys that jumped from branch to branch and picked nits from each others’ buff-coloured fur. On rare occasions, low-flying peacocks graced the greenery. Once, he’d spotted a stray deer that had wandered away from the nearby forest. None of the friends had believed him.

The front of Rahul’s blue and red striped t-shirt had a dark, wet patch of tears. Stifling sobs, he watched as a huge monkey leapt from one Gulmohur to another, prompting a noisy spray of brown sparrows to rise from the red foliage and scatter haphazardly. The sight didn’t cheer him at all, and he looked through the small window in the wall. Dad’s crying. His father wiped wet cheeks with the back of his hand while he chopped.

Rahul climbed down from the chair and walked away to his room in silence.

#

Milind chopped the onions with vengeance. The angry neighbours who’d turned up the previous evening to complain had said many things. Loyalty for the wrong sorts. He didn’t doubt Rahul’s involvement in the innocent prank but was equally sure his son wasn’t the mastermind behind all the ones played by the neighbourhood children, like Mrs. Verghese seemed to suggest. The whole locking neighbours’ doors from the outside and fleeing was more likely than not her own son’s bright idea. Actually, he thought it was a fun thing to do. But it’s not right. That boy can’t just push blame on my son like that. Can’t Rahul see through this? Instead, he admires him.

He sneaked a glance through the opening in the wall. No sign of Rahul. He imagined the boy framed in the tiny rectangle, drawing a smiley on the condensed vapour of the cool metal jug while he waited to sample whatever was placed on the ledge. Their own little routine.

‘Of course I understand, must be difficult… I mean, you work from home, agreed. But still, need to pay more attention towards your boy, no?’ Mrs Verghese had said. ‘This was just a prank, but there’s so much defiance in Rahul, I can see him becoming rebellious well before his teenage years. Look, Mr. Mishra, how he’s looking at me. If my boy was…’

Milind mutilated the onions and tossed them into the curry, angry with his son as much as with the stupid neighbours who’d made a big deal out of the matter. He’d only asked his son to apologize, and Rahul had stalked off to the room, banging the door behind him.

More than the prank or the neighbours’ rants, Rahul’s sulk angered him. The boy who always gobbled the tasty meals his father served him had neglected all the knocks, pleas and the notes passed from under the door. Notes that listed Rahul’s favourite savouries, to be ‘ordered’ if he pleased.

A seven year-old boy on a hunger-strike against his own dad. Because I asked him to apologize, or because he simply dislikes that woman? What is he up to?

With expertise, Milind made perfect round chapatis with the wooden rolling-pin. He stopped after three, wondering if he ought to shout at Rahul and force him to have lunch. The boy surely deserved to be spanked. How long could a child go without a proper meal? Had his son taken his threat of letting him go without food seriously? Even if that was so, he could not allow this sort of thing. Perhaps the nosey neighbours were right, he needed to be more strict. He was sure the small supply of chocolates Rahul was allowed to keep in his room, an extension of rule-breaking he allowed after his wife’s death, was exhausted.

Garnished with a coriander leaf, he placed a bowl of Rahul’s favourite potato-brinjal curry on the ledge, only to realize Rahul wasn’t sitting on the other side to taste and give expert comments. I have to get that boy out of the damn room once I’m done with this.

#

A black-faced monkey sneaked in through the open balcony door and sat on the table, eyeing a cane fruit basket.

It bared teeth at its reflection in the shiny pendulum of the clock on the adjacent wall. The image did the same, and the bemused monkey inched closer, tail lying along the table’s length, shiny eyes moving with the pendulum. Raising one long black hairy finger, it touched the metal and jumped back in fright, spattering the surface with Gulmohur leaves, shifting cutlery around.

Milind paused in the middle of rolling a chapati. So Rahul had decided to eat. He should know I am not happy. He tossed a perfect, flat round piece onto the pan.

‘Done sulking?’ he asked without looking up.

Lack of reaction from the other side was the answer.

‘All right. Let’s eat once I’m done. We’ll talk later. Don’t you dare lock yourself into the room again.’

The monkey looked through the opening into the kitchen and frowned at the sounds, scratching its head. Seeing Milind with the rolling-pin, it inched away from the window and hid behind the wall. Then it grabbed an orange from the basket and bit into it. Juice sprayed everywhere.

Rahul’s father tapped the bowl of curry on the ledge with the wooden pin, a part of him hoping his son would take the bait.

The sound startled the monkey, who threw the half-eaten orange on the floor with a dull thump. With one long hand, it quickly grabbed the bowl from the ledge and hid behind the wall again, staring at the contents and blinking. With great deliberation, the animal dipped a finger in the curry and put it in its mouth. Opening and closing it several times, it frowned and placed the bowl back on the ledge.

Milind saw the bowl from the corner of his eyes. ‘Something missing?’ he asked, spreading dough on a wooden platform. ‘Needs more salt, does it?’

The monkey ignored this and chose a ripe mango from the fruit basket.

‘Rahul?’

The entire fruit went into the animal’s mouth. Specks of yellow spattered the white porcelain plates.

‘Rahul? Why don’t you answer, you…’

Milind banged the pin on the counter and stormed out of the kitchen.

#

The weaver-bird was absent. Rahul took the long ruler from his desk. Holding one end, he gently moved the nest through the window with the other. The chicks inside chirped with fright. No bird emerged. He dropped the ruler on the desk and threw himself on the bed head-down, tiny frame shaking with sobs.

He sat up at the shrill cry from the hall. Smudging his face with his hand, Rahul got down from the bed and ran out.

He’d barely registered his father’s presence when he saw the monkey, dripping mango pulp down its front, baring long, sharp teeth at his father; who held up a hand in a threatening gesture.

‘Aaarrrrghhhhhh!’ screamed Rahul.

‘Eee.. eee…weee…’ went the monkey, turning around to face him.

‘Get back to your room,’ shouted his father. ‘I’ll chase it out. It may bite!’

Rahul screamed again; frozen at the spot, colour draining from his tear-streaked face.

The animal grabbed an entire bunch of bananas from the table, upsetting a water jug. It then jumped right in front of the boy, and in two springy strides was out of the balcony and onto a tree, dropping the half-eaten mango on Rahul’s head, whose eyes went very round. Swaying on the spot for a couple of seconds, Rahul dropped on to the floor before his father could reach him.

#

Later at the table, Rahul didn’t dare to look at his father.

‘Eat,’ his father said, pointing at a plate full of food in front of Rahul. ‘I’ve had enough of this since yesterday. You’ve behaved very badly. I hope you realize it.’

Rahul managed a weak nod.

‘I made you drink some glucose when you passed out. See what happens when you don’t eat?’ he took a sip from a glass. ‘Now taste that curry I made for you and tell me how it is, while I decide your punishment.’

Rahul tore a piece of chapati, scooped some curry in it and put it in his mouth, chewing very slowly.

‘It’s ok,’ he said, swallowing it. He couldn’t lie. It’s not as good as usual.

‘Just ok? Not good?’

‘No,’ Rahul mumbled.

His father sighed and took another sip. ‘Alright. No worries,’ he tousled Rahul’s hair and smiled. ‘And I think I’ll cancel the punishment, because the curry’s not good.’

Rahul perked up at the smile. Stuffing his mouth with more, he jumped down and hugged his father.

‘No it’s good! Absolutely yummy. Couldn’t be better,’ he swallowed the mouthful with haste. It actually tasted delicious. ‘I was only joking, dad!’ Even from the table and enveloped in a tight hug, Rahul could see the weaver-bird at the nest’s mouth through his open bedroom window.

© vaidehi patil 2011

Switched

13 Thursday Oct 2011

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The switch happened when Karan, the host, sneezed on the screen. It took a while for Rhinorus to realize he was no longer surrounded by his kind, or by the myriad organic individuals. Instead, strange entities he had never seen before zoomed past him in highly organized streams. This irked him for some reason, yet he wondered what they were; certainly not the reds and the whites, because he could recognize them well. The former he ignored and the latter hated him. If he met them now, he would have gladly told them how they were wrong to call him borderline organic. Rhinorus decided he was not that. At least not when compared to these strange cells that whizzed past him, resembling zeroes and ones. Weird. They seemed oblivious of his presence, and this bothered him. Inorganic fools.

Rhinorus knew he needed to find the suitable One soon. Or a Zero. Either would do, time was running out and he was beginning to feel a little uneasy. A fifth of his life was already over. He gathered that the bizarre entities didn’t look like they were made from the usual organic stuff, but he didn’t want to think that would be a problem. This was mostly because two-fifths of his life was gone and he needed to infect one of them soon.

In his stressed state, their speed mesmerized him. He tried to latch onto a one, but was too slow. He tried to latch on a zero and failed. A dozen attempts later, panic engulfed him. It wouldn’t do well to not find a host soon. The next one-fifth of Rhinorus’s life was spent without success, to leech onto the zeroes and ones.With every miserable defeat, his fear of death increased exponentially. When only a little of his life remained, he decided he had to find his way back to Karan.

How do I get out of here? Wherever he went, he was met by streams of horrid inorganic digits. His ego hurt from the quick, offhand manner in which they escaped him, as though ignoring his very existence. These organized streams, he thought, had something unhealthy about them. Unnatural, unreal. He didn’t even have the time to react when one such stream ran straight at him.

The remaining few nanoseconds of his life passed rapidly. Rhinorus’s last memory was of an army of digits that surrounded him with vengeance comparable to that of a white blood cell he’d seen attacking his fellows back home.

———

Bootwrecker snatched the chance when Karan dozed off on the laptop, ear pressed against the keyboard. The ear provided just the right opportunity. Itching for an adventure, he dived right in. He had piggy-backed on others for too long. He was tired of it, of hiding, getting caught every now and then. He didn’t think he was as malicious as he was made out to be, and he wanted to live up to his reputation. Must grab the opportunity.

‘Strange’ didn’t quite sum up what he saw. Bootwrecker was used to hanging out with only two types. Here, there were thousands. Round, shapeless, red, white: all of them dead slow. Easy targets.

For the first time, Bootwrecker had the chance to go against his engineering and choose his prey. He knew he’d be a medical miracle if he managed to infect. This was his golden chance to become more famous than The Y2K. Bah, and he wasn’t even a real one. Unlike me.

Bootwrecker attempted to hide as a bunch of red zeroes bounced past him. They ignored him completely. But they seem so real. Strange. Hang on a nanosecond… wow! They can’t see me! I am invisible. I am invincible! And with that knowledge, he zoomed ahead to explore around a bit. He lurked around the blind spot, trying to make sense of the coloured lights falling on the screen next to him. I see no pixels. Strange hardware. A little further, Bootwrecker found a territory which appeared a little familiar. He could sense some sort of electric pulses zooming beyond the river in which he floated. Wow. That’s where I must go.

The sight that greeted him was beyond belief. Bootwrecker stood on the edge of the river and watched the million waves zoom around in all directions, bouncing off grey stuff, vanishing with a flash. Strange, luminescent waves. Were they even that? He thought he spotted a flicker of something that looked like a photograph in one. Photograph? Oh.

A white, rough, spherical something attacked him in just that happy moment of realization. Damn! Anti-virus software. Where did that come from?? A quick dash to the opposite side of the brain put enough distance between him and the white blood cell. Slow, un-updated moron.

Bootwrecker had a lot of time on hand. He sifted through the thought waves, taking his time to choose the target. It has to be a visual, for most impact.Those seem to be the most intense.

Then he saw it, flashing near the back of the brain.

——

Karan woke up. The screen flashed a message.

‘Unknown Rhin 2005.264.V.04.rwx- successfully removed. ‘

He grinned. Vivid memories of close escapes were now just that, memories. Karan stood up and stretched. It was going to be a busy day.

—–

© vaidehi patil 2011

Isn’t it nice…

20 Tuesday Sep 2011

Posted by in Breadcrumbs, Smile in the mind

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to hear your language, from across continents, when the mind gets infested with Dementors.

Dear Tonks,

Compositus Modestus for your mind
Expecto Patronum for your thoughts
It's times like these that make me wish
I was a wizard and you were a witch

A spell here, to clean the mess
A spell there, for happiness
A bit of potion, if I could make
A little stress, away - I would take

Would fly on the broom and reach there
Or the Floo network to be where you are
I wish so much, I really do
To take these problems away from you
To take you in my arms and fly away
Where it's only fun, joy and play

Love
Lupin

wincing in the rain

06 Tuesday Sep 2011

Posted by in Attempts at Poetry, Breadcrumbs, Speech Bubble, Writing

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Wincing in the rain

In coach no. 78-ish
of an unwilling train,
a bothered traveller, me
sits wincing in the rain

It’s an unruly collection:
about 73 cars punctuated with bicycles
I sit honking on my bike
far behind in the stream of obstacles

The raincoat covers me
but not all the digital devices
I worry getting splattered
and losing work in the crisis

Rubber-plastic smells,
smoke-coated drops,
an amused, mucky stray
the busy, bothered cops:
all links of the chain,
where I sit wincing in the rain.

A large lady in blue,
on a tiny cerulean scooter
uncertain and under-confident
ahead of an annoyed commuter:
her legs dangle on each side
throughout the snail-slow ride

and I sit wincing in the rain
with worry frying my brain
while she does what doesn’t suit her
on the tiny cerulean scooter

twenty minutes ahead,
I’ve grown horns of impatience
I honk, honk and honk
she displays sudden confidence
and scoots away at long last
for the train’s now moving fast
The road’s now clearing up
the tram’s now a TGV
and I’m loving the drops
while thinking of home and tea

The lights go red
the mind’s worrying no more,
my helmet visor’s up
though it’s beginning to pour

I’m singing out loud
a toothless old chap stares
nearby, another dangly-legged lady
for a battle ride prepares

Such creatures of habit are we:
the tram’s become a TGV,
I’ve grown to love the drops,
the greens have inspired a song,
I’ve braved the jammed lane,
but still wincing in the rain.

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