“Gotya, wake up, you bum.”
Gotya was shaken up from his sleep. He shuddered, then forced his face to point to where the sound was coming from. He let in as much of his father’s looming figure as his hazy vision allowed.
Gotya’s father was tired of Gotya’s utter lack of competence at any work there possibly was to do. Gotya, on the other hand, was fed up with the extreme truculent manner in which his father constantly chided him. Neither of them attempted to right anything. Gotya continued to laze away the days and the nights. His father continued to bark at him for doing so.
“What are you going to do now?”
“Just what you told me Baba,” was all he managed to mutter. He was still livid with his father for waking him up early. Just as he was every day. He was still spread across his Charpai — spread even more than the bedsheet beneath him did.
“And what is that?”
“Not to do anything stupid,” he hissed now — his father just won’t give up.
“That is what you are not going to do, Gotya. I asked what are you going to do now?”
Gotya sighed. “Haven’t we just gone through this?” he pondered. And finally, annoyed, he shot back, “Anyway, what am I going to do?”
“We just went through this, you idiot. Stop being stupid.”
“See.” It was Gotya who barked now. “That’s why I keep saying you are getting old now. Isn’t that exactly what I said I am going to do – not doing anything stupid?”
Gotya sat straight now, his father contrarily bent a little. He then stretched somewhat and then bent a lot more, sighing. Herding this fool is no less difficult than the thoughtless goats, goats are easier withal, he mumbled.
This is another short-story from the series of adventures from this crazy village Tikwadi. I have also published the other humor stories as part of this series — The Lone Conductor, Day when a loan shark was tamed and He who wasn’t welcomed.
Thursday dawned on Tikwadi. For an outsider, no dawn in Tikwadi was any different. Villagers idled around just the way they always did. Men meandered, dilly-dallying with some unknown angst. Women hustled helter-skelter, pretending to be busy with some unknown chore. And kids spurted kooky from all directions, engulfed with some unknown euphoria. But for a resident of Tikwadi, every day dawned with a new crazy chapter.
Even today, a group of men squat around a smallish bonfire. They had Neem stems sticking out of their mouths; and hands, searching for heat, sticking out of their bodies. The chilly month of December always made them do such concoctions — they were never sure which body part they wanted to heat by the bonfire and which one to keep warm in the cloak. Raghu and Ganya were doing nothing different.
“I heard Paka saw a ghost yesterday?” queried Raghu.
“Where?” Ganya raised his brows.
“In his farm, it seems. He was returning from his evening choir. Got late. Heard he saw lights dancing in front of him.”
“That idiot must have just seen some fireflies. Anyway, who did you hear it from?”
“Who else did you hear it from?”
“No one else. Why the fuck does that matter?” Raghu bit on his Neem a bit too hard.
“Why would you say “you heard” if the only person you heard it from was the one whom it happened to?”
Raghu spat a chunk of chewed Neem extracts — the stem wasn’t the only thing that was leaving a bitter taste in his mouth.
“Fuck, is that Lala?” he howled. “Why the hell is he out of his den?”
Lala was horror personified. A moneylender by profession, and unlike the tradition of Tikwadi, he did not suck at lending money. After all, there are only so many ways someone can lend money. He did not lend money, he sentenced people to lending money from him. He would devise a ploy so intriguing that people just took money from him irrespective of their needs.
Paka, the lone conductor of Tikwadi, had fallen for a similar ploy. He once sat at the window of his bus with Lala next to him. He knew he should just keep his mouth shut and eyes focused on anything but the evil. There was a word around the town that Lala can taint one’s brain with any opening he finds on your body. Paka did not want his brain to get spoilt; he pulled his beanie tighter over his ears.
“So where’s the bus going?” Lala began his session.
Why the fuck does that matter? Where are you going, you devil? Paka cursed in his mind. But he stayed inert, as if lifeless.
“You people controlling this bus are genius; it looks so old. It must be holding a world record for being the oldest bus plying on the road. Why do you still work, as in do a job?” Paka looked at Lala with quizzing eyes. Strike one.
“Why are you looking at me like that? For this alone, The Guinness Book of Records must have paid you a fortune, no?” Paka, still mostly unmoved, had few frowning lines on his forehead. Strike two.
Lala continued, “Now don’t tell me you did not even apply for the Guinness records?” Paka heard him. Strike three. Game over.
Of course, Lala did not suck at taking the money back from people. He was a ruthless maniac at that. So much so that there was a belief around the town that he had hollowed his cardiac chambers too — and used that space as safes for hiding people’s documents.
Both Raghu and Ganya owed him money. And neither could pay him back. So they stood up and started a brisk walk away from Lala. Lala, with his husky loud voice first, caught up to them in spite of an ancillary tummy dangling from his torso.
“Stop. I am not here to ask money from you, you fools.”
Both Raghu and Ganya stopped.
“Have you seen Paka around?”
“Must be at his home.” Raghu shot back.
“You think I did not try that? I went to his home and he is not there,” Lala lambasted.
“No idea, in that case, about where he is. I did hear that he saw a ghost yesterday. So maybe he has run away from Tikwadi.” Raghu informed.
Ganya raised his eyebrows and howled, “Paka did not see any ghost, and this idiot did not hear it from anyone. He only heard it from Paka, or so he says.”
“Then why the fuck does he say that he heard?” Lala shrieked. Ganya shrugged. “Anyway, I think he has a ghost living in his house itself,” Lala theorised.
Neither Raghu nor Ganya spoke a word. They just stared at Lala in an expectation that he might clarify this theory further.
“That lady living with him? She is no lesser that a witch.”
“Of course.” They spurted out exactly at the same time. “Indeed she is. What did she do now by the way?”
“Well, I went there to ask my money back. That witch managed to pull another ₹100 from me. And also a monthly business, I am afraid”
Both Raghu and Ganya instantly flattened their hands to smash them together, all in full respect for this godly lady. Realising they have made Lala aware, they stopped. And gave him a puzzled look.
“Don’t ask. But hear me out anyway.”
I reached Paka’s house pretty early in the morning, I knew he always left his home early. But he had already left. He loves his bus more than his lady, I tell you.
Anyway, I reach there and catch his wife squatting in her front-yard, milking her goats. “Howdy Bindu,” I greet her and ask, “Where is Paka?”
She was startled as if no human had ever greeted her. So much so that she sprayed some milk on me. I felt even the goat looked at me and chuckled with a shake of her head.
“He is not here — has left for work.” I saw a fly strolling over the craggy surface of her face.
“So early? Must be to his second wife, no?” I attempted to crack a joke. She was not impressed. I attempted a cover-up, “I mean his bus.” Even the fly on her face need not change the course as it continued its trek.
She howled, “What do you want?” This time the fly did fly away.
“My money that Paka owes me.”
“He has not left any money at home.”
“Well, it has been very long since I have lent him the money. I won’t go home empty-handed today,” I looked around and pointed to the top subconsciously. “I am taking your tin shelter.”
“Our house does not have any, you took away the last one last month. It is all grass and mud now. Take that if you want.”
“Bah. What will I do with that?”
“How will I know? I do not do the business of selling mud and grass.”
“Duh. Is there any idiot who does that?”
“Well, you sold us the mud and grass when you took our tins last time.” The goat shook her head again. I was not liking it one bit.
“Whatever. I have come out of my house, I need to take something. Anything. Your goat. Aha. Yes, I will take your goat.” The goat yawned and looked away. I am still not sure if it did that in fright or disgust.
“Ok, pay me ₹100 and take the goat away?”
“Tchah. Why the hell should I pay you anything?”
“Well, it’s your goat now. And I have just milked her,” she said pointing at the bucket full of milk. “You will anyway take the milk too with you and sell it, making more moolah. So you owe me a ₹100 for my service.”
The goat bleated, mocking me.
“Ok. I will deduct the amount from what you already owe me.”
“Nah. I do not do business on credit. You have to pay me right now, and take the goat away.”
“Ok. here’s your ₹100,” I opened my briefcase, prepared a document and handed it to her, “Now I own this goat, sign here.”
Bindu wiggled and wiped her wet hands, took the papers and put her initials.
“There you go,” I sounded triumphed. Sigh. Little did I know what the hell I was getting into.
I failed miserably to manoeuvre the goat, it just wouldn’t budge. It kept lazily munching on the grass, idly looking at me every now and then. Its chomps were dull, eyes were dull. Its whole body was still as death, the only thing moving was its frothy mouth.
“Well, it won’t move,” I complained
“Well, it’s yours,” Bindu quipped.
That witch, she must have done some sorcery. Realising what a big mess I had gotten myself into, I said, “I can’t take your goat. You keep it.”
“Well, how can I keep it. I have already signed the document stating it is your goat.”
“Never mind. Keep it.”
“How can I? That would mean I am servicing you again, I am taking care of your goat. That will cost you extra.”
That witch. And her goat.
Lala sputtered, “So, next time you meet Paka, tell him I am never lending him any money again.”
In their minds, Raghu and Ganya were already in search of a place where they would one day hoist the statue of Bindu. That would be Tikwadi’s own Statue of Liberty.
Oas trotted to the window to peek outside, sliding aside the recently dusted curtains. He had dusted them just an hour back, but he still found some dust on his hands. He wiggled his hands and muttered few muffled swears towards the polluting city dwellers.
He went to the wash basin, took some liquid soap from the dispenser he had just refilled and washed off the dust. As a matter of fact, the dispenser did not need a refill. But a routine was the only thing that kept Oas’s life rolling. So refilling soap dispensers was one of his Sunday morning’s routine chore. As was dusting the furniture and curtains.
He was also particular at being absolutely certain about things. So he washed his hands off again a couple of times.
He realised he had forgotten to peek outside when we had slid the curtains aside, well, to peek outside. He also realised that not enough dust had stuck to his hands earlier to make the curtains clean. So he reached closer to the windows and gazed fixedly at the curtains as if he possessed some superpower to wipe things clean just by his stare. He wished he did. He did not.
He wanted to check the weather outside, of course without letting his hands be all dusty. So he pulled an old umbrella from the cabinet and poked at the curtains, as if he was worried that the dust particles were monsters hiding behind, ready to pounce on him. He wished they were. They were not.
Once he was convinced that nothing will pounce on him, he used the same umbrella to slide the curtains to the side and swiftly moved closer to the window to peek outside. He instantly tumbled backwards as he saw two green shaken eyes gawking back at him. Some more muffled swear words left Oas’ mouth.
Oas saw the shaken eyes come back to their sleepy normal — one eye open three-fourth, another the remaining one-fourth. Both belonged to one lazy creature dwelling in their block. Oas’ neighbours called it a cat — he called it Mr. Boneless Marvel. “Marvel it is — given it belonged to no one, no one freaking cared about pets in our block and it was too lazy assed to care about itself. Still, I have never seen it lose a sliver of weight. Phenomenon. Prodigy. Miracle.” Oas always advocated his case to Sara.
Mr. Marvel had a total of half eyes open now looking at Oas, chin strongly pinned on its paw. Oas attempted to shoo it away with the umbrella. It winked back at him. Oas attempted it a couple more times. It winked back a couple more times. Oas slid the curtain closed.
He again realised he did not peek outside for the weather, so he slid the curtain open, ignored Mr. Marvel and checked the weather outside, finally.
Oas saw a grumpy old man peering back at him in the mirror. There were so many things Sara would not like in what reflected back. So he straightened his eyebrows, opened his eyes wide, curved his lips up into a pleasant smile and slowly flattened the visible creases on his sweater. He wished somewhere deep inside he could do the same for the wrinkles on his forehead. And the ones on his nose too. He couldn’t. So his face went back to be being grumpy again.
He could be his grumpy self for some more time. As per the Sunday routine, he still had an hour to ready himself for Sara.
He finally walked outside, locked the door behind him and, of course, tugged at it a couple of times. He realised something, muttered few muffled swears again, unlocked the door and brought an umbrella back with him. He knew it would rain soon.
He started ambling towards the bus stop. As he did every Sunday, he stopped next to the electronics store and inspected himself in the glass at the store front to make sure he was ready for Sara. Today, he saw Mr. Marvel standing next to him. He tried to recall last time he had seen it standing. He could not, so he started walking. So did it.
Oas wasn’t sure why it was following him. He shrieked, “go away, shoo” waving his hand. It blinked. He wielded his umbrella almost touching its nose. It stopped, purred, licked its grey moustache and looked back at him, winking. He gave up and started walking, holding his shoulder to abate the pain from all his freakish swordplay.
Oas sat on the bench at the nearest bus stop. He never missed this small trip, rather he was breathing only for these Sunday walks of his. It was here that Sara had arranged for a letter to be delivered for Oas every week before she left him once and for all. It was here she narrated, via the letter, an incident from her life which she could never share with Oas while she lived.
Oas hated Sara for being shrewd enough to see he would have died, or killed himself, long back if it weren’t for these beads of secrets from her life. It was now six months since she died, but Oas lived on for, and she lived on via, these letters.
Just as every Sunday, an unknown guy delivered a letter to Oas at 11AM. Clouds crowded the skies, and Oas’ heart too. He neatly opened the letter and read on.
When I met you, I was a touchy, bitter girl with a life laden with sorrows. It was you who pulled me out of my miseries and made me see the beautiful side of life. And I realised how necessary it is to reduce pessimism from other’s life. That day onwards I lived my life just to protect you, cover you from any despairs; just as you have done for me. We have been each other’s shields.
But I saw one more soul who needed bouts of optimism, of love. And I gave him that. I know you would have never liked me doing so, but I just couldn’t see him sad. With me gone, I know you are grumpy. And so is he. So you must continue to help him, for me. Be nice to him, I am sure he too will do the same. Be each other’s shield, protecting other from pouring sorrows. Bring your Mr. Marvel, my Buddy, home. You need him. So does he, you.
It had gotten a lot gloomy around. Oas looked at Mr. Marvel sitting, grumpy, near his legs, with its shrunken eyebrows and wrinkles all over the face. He chuckled, as the clouds suddenly started pouring down.
Oas pulled Mr. Marvel near him and covered it under his umbrella. He stood up and called out, “Come, let’s go home, Buddy.”
This story was first published on Medium.
Today’s was a typical summer morning in Tikwadi. It was a calm & pleasant dawn that the midnight breeze & the sun-beaten land had hatched together. And like every typical morning — summer, winter or of the rainy season — Paka sat expressionless at the window seat of his bus. His bus it was, as he was the lone conductor available in the village.
It would not have been the case in reality though, if not for Paka. He was just smart enough to convince those who appointed a conductor that no person there was suitable for the job. He also convinced those who wanted to get appointed as one that no job there was suitable for the person.
“What to do? It is a selfish world out there.” He used to say as he accepted the job — making him evidently look selfless.
And keeping his job as a conductor intact was the only job he ever worked on. As long as he did that well, all he had to do was report to the bus depot every morning, sit at his window seat through the day and get dropped at his home at night.
Paka had also mastered the skill of acting dumb — something he, of course, was not, given the fact that he had managed to keep the whole village away from his job for 5 years now. Every time someone reminded him of the work he has to do as a conductor, he would work hard to screw up hardest. He considered screwing intermittently as the part-time job, holding onto it being the primary one.
“Why don’t you ever count the money collected?” An officer had once asked him. “Tomorrow, you bring it as counted.”
He reported to the officer next day with no money with him.
“Did no one travel on the bus today?”
“They did. But you told me to count. I counted. I put every rupee note I received next to me in a separate pile based on their value — as I was taught counting in school. It seems the notes blow away if not held.”
“But then why didn’t you hold them?”
“Well, I can either hold the money or count it, right? I only have two hands.”
The officer had received ₹700 less in his next salary.
And no one dared to question Paka — he used to yell “Well, find someone else suitable for this job”. Of course, he would then be asked to simply do nothing.
In that sense, he was paid to not work. Lesser he moved from his seat, more he not worked — more he not worked, more he was paid.
Not that everyone in Tikwadi was stupid, though. It was just that every individual was a master at being a fool at their work.
Farmers sucked at farming. Carpenters sucked at carpentry. Potters sucked at pottery. Barbers sucked at barbery. The only people that did not suck at their jobs were operators of the water pumps. They never sucked, anything.
Paka met all these people during the rides on his bus. And he dreaded every interaction he had with these fools out in the village.
Today, Paka saw Gotya coming towards his bus. He sighed. He dreaded meeting Gotya the most. Gotya was a herder. Of course, he sucked at herding his goats. But that was not why Paka dreaded him. Gotya was one of the most foolish ones out there & he made Paka work like no one ever did.
He knew it was going to be a hectic day for him.
Gotya hopped onto the bus. And so did his five goats after him.
“Goats are not allowed on the bus.”
“Where is it written?”
“Here — right above me.”
“You know I can’t read, right? Read it for me.”
“Goats are not allowed on the bus.”
“Don’t tell me. Read for me from where is it written.”
“I just read for you from where it is written.”
“Then why is there a picture of a cigarette on the board & not of a goat?”
“It says goats are allowed if they are smoking.”
“You did not read so when I asked you to read from where it was written.”
“Goats are not allowed on the bus unless they are smoking.”
“What if I am smoking?”
“Smoking is not allowed on the bus.”
“But then how can goats travel while smoking?”
“Well, don’t ask me. I don’t make these rules.”
“Lucky bastards. By the way, where is that written?”
“What? That I do not make the rules?”
“No. Smoking is not allowed on the bus.”
“So, where is that written?”
“Right there — above the next seat.”
“There is a picture of a woman there and not of a cigarette.”
“It says it is ok to smoke sitting next to a woman.”
“Ok. I will sit next to her and smoke. That way I can bring my goats on the bus.”
“Sitting next to a woman is not allowed on the bus.”
“You know what, I am just going to sit next to that woman there, smoke a cigarette & keep my goats near your legs. Stop me if you can. Do some work.”
“No.” Roared the bus.
The journey began.
The story was originally published at Medium featured at the amazing publication Crossing (G)enres.
It was second incident in last 2 weeks when I had to select a mobile number for myself. Now this activity may sound simple and non-important. But I always find it an extremely confusing experience.
Think about it. In front of you are the numbers “available” for you to select as your contact number. Now first thing you have to make sure is the number should be at least easy enough to remember yourself so you do not have to open your contact list every time someone asks for your number.
Now I always find one which is easy enough to remember myself. But it so happens that the way I say the number is always different from how the person who listens to it utters.
To elaborate, I speak the number this way 4 2345 85 15. (Spaces are the pauses I take.) So simple right. Now this is how the other person repeats it 423 458 515. I am like what the hell. It takes me few seconds to realise both of them are the same.
So the aim is to, if possible, select a number which is easy to remember/recognise, whatever way one utters it. And I very rarely find one.
That’s not all. Lets move back to the initial situation. As I said, in front of you are the numbers “available” for you to select. Available. For you. Only these numbers.
So basically these are the numbers which no one, who has selected his contact number earlier, found easy enough to remember. And I have to select one from them. I could, till date, never prevent this thought from entering my mind.
In the end, I always end up selecting some number which neither I, nor someone else could fathom at the same time.
PS: Just received a compliment of my number being awesomely simple. So mission accomplished the second time.
Cake was being cut. Everybody stood around the “oh-am-one-more-year-old” guy and all of them were like “cmon-cut-that-cake-now-you-moron”. I stood there hoping that the cursed words do not leave some jackass’ mouth. And they did, against my wish..
“Happy B’day to you… happy b’day to you..<blah blah.. blah blah..>”
Now 80% percent did hum along the first “Happy B’day to you”. The number, however, dropped exponentially after that. The last “Happy B’day to you” was wished just by a single dumbo. Big time embarrassment I tell you.
See I am not being cynical here. I am equally happy that this person neared his death by one more year. But the problem is no one sings that song with the feelings it was actually meant to have. Plus the guy for whom the song is being sung is equally embarrassed as those who sing that song. So question arises why sing it at all.
Moreover I always felt whoever sung that song for the first time had something anti-asian boiling in his mind. Why the hell will he compose the third line the way he did then?
Confused? Well you haven’t sung, on top of your voice, “Happy b’day dear Harmoninderpal or Au or Venkataramana” then. I have and let me tell you, it is very effort taking. Need an indication of how effort taking and difficult it is? Well try and make Nisha Kothari act.
So the point am trying to make is stop singing this song. The melody was picked up from some song sung by two kindergarten school teachers in some late 1800’s and it does not suit this age now. Go read details here. Stop being moronic and make all the people involved, cake cutters and cake eaters, embarrassed. Birthday celebrations would be lesser pathetic this way.
PS: This song singing always reminds of the way we used to hum the “maine pyar tumhise kiya hain..” song during antakshari sessions in front of the girls, which were the ‘things’ we used to interact with just during such sessions back then. Embarrassing, way embarrassing!
PPS: The key to the “since 1912” part in title is in that link I shared for this moronic song’s history. Go grab a bite.
Since I arrived in Sydney, this question has been discussed and fought and betted over so many times among we friends. I mean the moment a clearcut-non-firangi girl is spotted, the next question that pops out is “Is she Indian?”.
The reason is simple. Everyone wants to be on top of his face reading skills. ‘I see them and I identify them’ is what most would want to boast about. No specific take away expected, just a self-satisfaction. And anyone and everyone is ready to bet a coffee or a lunch or a dinner for proving his reign over the so-called skill.
Now gone are the days when it was assumed that if someone bets, he must be right. So no one agrees with other, rather he too bets along. Thus these bets always end up being unverified “my-word-to-his” bets.
But that no way reduces the fun in such bets. The theories each side has to defend his view are just innovative, patentable always. Every single aspect, the way she talks, walks, stands, puts on makeup or does hair, is used as basis. You see basics have to be strong every time.
However today was different. Another such case was spotted and a bet initiated. This time however both were determined to prove he is right. And decided they will go enquire and sort this out once and for all.
Now imagine a situation, when a couple of guys with a bearded attire, resembling a “just-woke-up-hungry-ready-to-pounce” looks, walk to a simple unknown girl and query “Are you Indian?”. Both have the “I-would-win” hope filled looks in their eyes.
What can a girl respond in such situation other than a straight “no”. I guess she would negate anything these guys say or ask including “Are you a girl?”. Well that didn’t solve the bet. In came the defence, “The way she said no straight away? She has to be Indian”.
So for me the bet remained unresolved though I commended their courage to carry this attire with such confidence in front of an unknown unidentified girl. The question still remained, “Is she Indian?”
PS: Girls from china, japan, taiwan, malaysia etc are out of discussion here. I don’t want to sound any way racist, but I will just say we all name them under one category and move along. They would be having there own internal discussion about their origins the moment they spot one.
PPS: Such discussions happen even in India when the skill move to a state level, i,e read a face and guess the state.
The beasts called elevators end up pissing me off every single time. I had rambled about these dumb asses earlier here. Go grab a bite.
If you have read that post, you will know that the ramblings mentioned earlier were particularly about those ill-chipped lifts of that underdeveloped guest house. But now I am convinced these shameless creatures are programmed to torture their inmates.
I mean think about it. What are the decisions these lifeless steel rooms have to make.. (Inspiration)
- Where do the people want to go?
- Where they are and where each floor is?
- What strategy they need to make so that they are cursed the least?
First decision is pretty simple. We make that decision for you, you bugger. You see those glowing numbers on the number pads we keep on pressing one after other? Yeah that is where we want to go. As quick as possible.
Second decision has a whole lot of mechanics behind it. I mean there are some shafts and then there are some holes on some vertical tapes and then there is some counting involved. I would surely like to go in details, but I don’t want to. So I won’t. Visit that inspiration link you see above.
However the part that puzzles me the most is the strategy because that’s when these supposed-to-be angels stop being ones and enter the devil’s land. Now these buggers have to strategise where to go, when to go and how to go. And I absolutely feel that they are not wired to do so. I mean how else can you explain the simplest of the things these dudes screw up.
How many times have you waited for an elevator to scroll right from 50 meters below basement up to the 14th floor when his other buddy is resting right at the 15th floor? Do they have some gentlemen’s agreement where one simply says “Can’t you see sucker I have just finished carrying 6 fat asses up and down thrice between just 2 floors. I am tired now and you can for sure handle these dumbos”.
How many times have you jailed yourself in a jam packed elevator as it drools itself down the shaft stopping and opening at each floor. If you are outside, those seemingly endless few seconds you spend when you apply all your permutation skills to see if you can possibly fit in any of the available gaps inside before giving up are just killing.
There are many other plights of these long travels between floors. But you see the point is the where, when and how part has to be strategised properly.
I will pen down the requirements for you. An elevator, for minimum, has to
- follow quickest path to you and quickest path to where you desire to go.
- open only if it can intake any of the fat asses, close and start the journey as soon as everyone hops on.
- understand when some mischievous fatty calls it, but does not want to hop on.
- not kill my mobile signal.
- close the doors faster so people get less chance to stop the elevator and say the meaningless “S” word again.
These are just a few suggestions that can make this floor travel not a sucking experience after all.
PS: On an unrelated note, why the hell does every single elevator has to have mirrors? Who wrote this unwritten law first? It just gives me one more chance for not letting the elevator know where I want to go and follow a journey to a floor undesired with this lifeless but life sucking beast.
Tomorrow I am going to travel through the time to the future me. It’s been long that I was planning for one such tour. However just for the need of the future currency, I had to postpone my travel to tomorrow.
In a moment, my friend will return from his visit. I have asked him to smuggle some future currency back to the past. To maintain the time conundrum, I will believe that, as of today, I do not know if he does bring it in. (However the fact remains that I have made the travel tomorrow. So this should clarify the doubts over whether he did. He did. Successfully. Believe me!)
Anyway there was some small calculation mistake while carrying the digit forward, which I normally do, that made me end up a day behind where I was supposed to end at, i.e. tomorrow. Now I do not want to disturb the normalities in here, the past world that is. So I will prefer hiding in this panic room and simply pen down my experiences of this drive.
The first and foremost observation, technology has spoiled the human race in there man. People only speak in command prompt queries. A sentence is no longer than 3 words, the longest (and oldest) being “I am sorry”. (And even there, people hardly mean it!)
Every single software is run by Google and hardware designed by Apple. There is an antique building called “Microsoft Live Centre”. I heard it has hanged in the messy green screen of death that displays a Matrixsque live feed of random numbers. Some say it has gone offline from the day it’s services were tagged “Live”. (By the way, don’t tell anyone. but there were still rumours about the apple tablet and google phone.)
However fun was when I met my future me. The way he was behaving I still feel, as Zaphod Beeblebrox would say, “if I ever met myself again, I will hit myself so hard I won’t know what’s hit me.”
By the way I wanted to tweet this there and then itself. But that future me just laughed at me when I said it takes 140 characters for us to share what we are doing. He mentioned even the novels are 20-30 characters long in there. The crypto-tex-pander fitted in each person’s eyes just completes the novel. Idiots I tell you.
Sat for lunch and there there was another surprise. Those idiots there hardly eat any food. They just gobble down the pills for all the necessary vitamins, minerals and whatever necessary for the body. Floored I was to see they even have the pills for the junk food. These future mens are idiots. Extreme idiots.
Oops!! Need to hide. Someone is crawling towards this dark damp corner. Will blab out the remaining idiocracies of the future. Trust me. There are many. Did I tell you what they have a UCC, a Universe Conservation Committee, a group fighting the Universal Enpansion? Well they do. Blab you later. Ciao!
Image Credit: Picturepost (Interesting writeup. Do read!)
You know that time when you just back out of a thing which might have saved you some bucks? It happens to me a lot, but this particular week gave me a double blow.
First incident was when i did not back out when i should, though debatable, have. I trolled along the darling harbor idling my time out just because i did not have any other place to go. Out of no dire need, i felt this itch to go to the public telephone booth and, well, do nothing.
I picked up the handset and there began my efforts to place a call. I don’t know why but this bud was heavily reluctant to let me do so. I gave up, placed the dial back and put my hand to get the coin back. In the open mouthed telephone lied another $2 coin with my $1 coin.
Fuzzy that my mind always is, there began a mahabharat between my ethical and non-ethical brain cells. Should i or should not pick this $2 up which does not belong to me? I don’t remember for how long i stayed near the booth but last thing i remember i had extra $2 in my pocket. Debatable if i should have picked the coin, but i did.
Fast forwarding 2 hours later. My idling location shifted to a mall where after about an hour i decided i have crossed my idling quota for the week.
I came out with my iPod plugged in and whistled along the road towards train station and somehow felt everything was pretty bright around me. I knew i had a train in another 15 mins which i should not miss as there was no other train for another 90minutes. My eyes burnt and my subconscious mind was aching for something. And there it dawn on me why everything was indeed bright.
Next thing i remember i was running towards the mall to find my goggles worth way more than $2 i had picked up earlier. Whole time during my run to the mall i was thinking was that $2 really worth all this pain of losing costly goggles and missing train.
Final blow, however, was about to come. I reached the mall, found a sensible looking pretty lady and asked if they have found any goggles. She looked more optimistic than what I was. She ambled inside putting me on hold. After some time, she came out and said something which ignited my fuzzy brain cells again.
She said they have found one goggles, but they were ladies and if I think mine were, well, ladies goggles, she will get them from the security. Now I did not want to make complete fool of myself in front to pretty looking and sounding girl by saying I wear ladies goggles. But i did not want to not make any try too.
I thought for sometime what to do and then putting my manly pride ahead, I remember I mumbled something and came out. Whole time afterwards, i was soothing myself by thinking this.