Curry Chicken for the soul.

' Hey honey, are you ready to wake up. Its probably going to be a killing business day today,' said David. 'Carol looked so beautiful and at peace while she slept,' David thought.

Carol lazily opened her eyes to find David smiling. Carol was the smartest in her lot and a vital stats to kill for. David looked very smart and had toned muscles at requisite places that made sure most of the cocks stayed away from Carol.
'You know how the system works. We are the only dying hope for our little ones,' David said. He was right as usual.

David and Carol had been together for past two months at a suburban poultry farm. They had 4 little chicks who would soon grow up to become whats inevitable in lives of most of the chicken -- end up being stewed, grilled or barbecued.

David could sense for the past 2/3 days that their time would soon come. He was scared, yet stern. Carol was petrified of going under the butcher's knife nevertheless she had long ago accepted her fate to be on a humans plate, along side or marinated along with David.

The Farm hands came to pick them up, just like David had anticipated, for the big past that night. David and Carols shrieks could neither reach farm hand's ears, which were used to such powerless tantrums nor the horizon and God beyond it.
David and Carol did not die together. Unfortunately Carol had to witness the entire process (done to David) first before it was her turn.

Under the butcher's knife the only thought in Carol's mind was 'Our afterlives would be spiced up after death has done us into parts.'

Chicken for the people...
Chicken of the people...
Chicken by the people...

The Haunted Begining

I grew up in a small town - Panvel, Navi Mumbai, Maharashtra. During my growing years, the late 80s and early 90s, India was going through a lot of reforms, developments with respect to infrastructure, housing etc. and so was our beloved town.

There was one bungalow though, which stood apart. It was an architectural masterpiece and an alleged haunted house. It practically never changed in the past 20 years and stood tall, yet slowly withering.
Me and my two friends, during the summer of 2006, decided to go there and stay for a night to detect and feel any paranormal activity inside and in the vicinity of the bungalow.

A lot of development had taken place in surrounding areas of the bungalow. The gate, which once used to be isolated, was now road facing. An undergraduate college had sprung up on its right side, on the left was a saw mill and on the backside, there were residential complexes.

‘How did the Land Developers advertise these houses man, Rest with Rent,’ said Brijesh, my childhood friend and a Land developer himself, who always had a witty yet unfunny way of putting things.

We had carried requisite materials for the stay that night: sleeping bags; a lot of fire wood; ample quantities of munchies and alcohol. Though there is no such phrase as “liquor keeps ghosts away”, we had imagined, when face to face with ghosts, breaking the ice would be a lot less frightful, if drunk.

Vinod, yet another childhood friend, an electronics engineer and a software programmer had decided to join us, as he was sure that it were these ghosts and not credit card telemarketers, who were haunting him daily on his mobile phone, thanks to a HBO series called “Strange Frequencies”.
He wanted to settle scores with them, like any other angry, young and independent man.

We reached the bungalow at about 21:30 hrs. and without wasting time, quickly set up our gear for the night. Out came our flashlights and two bottles of finest whisky. We then started the inspection of the Haunted area.
Only Vinod was optimistic about our task. He felt, if the ruling Communist Party’s Government officials caught us for trespassing before the ghosts did, we would have a slightly better chance of surviving the ordeal because, by chance, we were devouring, “Red Label”.

Spookily enough, the windows had been completely shut with wooden planks, as if to keep some one from jumping out and pouncing upon the trespassers. Little signs of, what once must have been sparkling white paint, remained. Since the door was heavily bolted, we had a bleak chance of getting in and we were hoping that the ghosts, offended by our presence in their territory, would come out to greet us, or rather, eat us.

Vinod, a true patriot, was hyper-active with what he thought as a great idea. He resolved to start a “Quit Bungalow” movement against the paranormal telemarketers, AKA Ghosts and demand a dominion status from them. Brijesh retorted, ‘Munna Bhai chup ho jaa, varna Ramsay Brothers aa jayenge, aur voh saat (seven), sath, hain.’

Joking around, we were noticing the area and it was a scenic view, in the moonless night. Most of the trees in the vicinity were dead. Zee horror show style noises were emanating from the dried leaves that were being crushed under our feet.

Two bottles had finished; and our drunk, charged selves gathered a huge lot of dried leaves, coupled with our fire wood, we lit a camp fire. The booze had taken its toll. Vinod’s I-Pod was blasting Enigma and some underground Celtic music. Ironically, our dance like actions around the campfire resembled more with Discovery Channel’s “Tribal Tuesdays” program than with a genuine call to the spirits, which was ruling inside us and in our superstitious beliefs; around us, in that bungalow area. I wondered, if we really came out unscathed tonight, we still would require heavy doses of liver tonic to exorcise the demons.

By dawn, i.e. around 5:00 in the morning, and no signs of ghosts later, we cozily settled in our sleeping bags and were in our own little semi-conscious dreams.

Both of them were fast asleep, I did see ghosts that night though. The ghosts of my past. The ills and wrongs that, unknowingly, I had done to the people I loved and cared about.

The realizations of those wrongs, in many sub-conscious and rather subtle ways, had been haunting me. And there, in front of the elemental fire, I resolved to change and better myself for a bright and positive future.
Streaks of morning light hammered gently on the already dilapidated structure, which once must have been an abode of happiness for some family,now, perceived to be a ghost house.

The feeling of excitement and anticipation of searching for ghosts had been transformed. I had found my ghosts, within me, which were always there, dying, or rather, already dead. And yet, to be seen. These would remain with me for the rest of my life, including the CDs of movie Constantine...I was content with switching between channels, nevermind Heaven and Hell.

I only hope that out of most of our fictional or real experiences, if we would be able to draw optimistic conclusions,then, each day would help us become better persons and make us more Human.

Let the spirits live on...sans the excise duties, so that the parties can rock on for longer periods of time.

If you like what we have written, do forward this story to all of your friends, for every forward, me, Brijesh and Vinod will make enough money and by the end of year 2007, we might be able to buy three Maruti cars, thereafter, we intend to write our next adventure, for your reading pleasures, “The Punks who sold their Marutis.”

A cute Jam(b)ooree ....(the b is slient)....

Face defined with chubby cheeks and a flowing hairline,

A beauty personified, grace exemplified.

Powerhouse of grits is what your stay here has testified;

A little overweight but thats justified,

Where else would such a big heart reside.

A small summer flight and since you have soared in the 'sky,'

Little planes below are awestruck as they have watched you fly.

The bird feet explore these new sands inch by inch, mile after mile;

Caging fellow beings forever in that all prevading smile.

Politics of Chai....

The tea shop owner, Raghu, 45 years old, lived a few hundred feet away in a small slum with his wife, two daughters and a son.
My job, like most Indians, is from 9:00 hrs to 17:30 hrs. Late evenings are spent with friends at Raghu’s chai shop (tea stall), smoking cigarettes, devouring chai and chatting up.

Raghu’s house-size, a room rather, was such that it would make India’s population-density look negligible, its size was 10’ X 12’ X 8’ (LXWXH).
Raghu had invited us at his house for the satyanarayan pooja, holy ritual done by Hindus to please lord Vishnu, part of holy trinity, and we gladly obliged.
The exterior of his house was rather eccentric, painted in orange. The colour somehow made the house appear smaller than its original 120 square feet of area.
Just looking at that house/room was making me claustrophobic and Raghu shared this space with 4 other humans.
I wondered, ‘would Michael Jordan ever fit this “Space Jam”?’

Compared to the exterior paint, the interiors were very modestly done with a pearl white colour on the walls. Above, a 2 feet mezzanine floor kept their bedding; one corner of the house comprised of kitchen complete with one stove and a couple utensils; an L-shaped table near the kitchen area hosted Television and what probably looked like children’s school books. One mild steel cup board placed near the door must be used for storing the family’s clothes and whatever little jewellery Chandra mausi, Raghu’s wife, we called her mausi, name denoted to maternal aunts, out of respect.

We quickly offered our prayers at the pooja dais and settled outside Raghu’s house on wooden stools that he provided. He offered us tea, only this time, free of cost.
Raghu hailed from a state in North India & poverty & unemployment compelled him to migrate to Maharahstra, in our town. After working at a tea stall for couple of years, he had started his own tea stall and on basis of that venture, got married and had raised a family.
Most of locals and local politicians were making hue and cry that people like Raghu are straining the resources of the Municipal Corporation and State Government and therefore must be evicted from the city/town. Politicians at the centre (New Delhi) were counter arguing that Indians can travel anywhere in India without fear; hiding the facts however; that the State Governments of North India had completely failed in creating employment opportunities, thus compelling people like Raghu to migrate.

Going to Raghu’s house was a humbling experience. Raghu and his household is the epitome of below economy classes of India and the story is same in most of such slums, just like Raghu's.

Raghu meanwhile attempts to legalize his citizenship in this state but in vain. We keep going at Raghu’s chai shop, hoping someday, all Indians will be treated equally, when no body needs to make “first claim” on our already diminished resources.