Chp 446. Dear Mumbai Police, can I buy you a cup of tea?

Day before yesterday, I attended my first Mizo Church Service in Mumbai this year because it was Palm Sunday.

Every Sunday, 3:30pm, the BMCF (Bombay Mizo Christian Fellowship) conducts a Church service in our local language at All Saint’s Church, Malabar hills, next to Hanging Garden.

I am not much of a Church goer as I usually work on Sundays too, but last Sunday being a special day for us Christians, I took a haircut in the morning, shaved, wore my formals and took a cab to town.

I had a memorable time – sang gospel songs, heard a couple of good testimonials and met up with old friends after the Church service. Everything went as expected. Until the unexpected happened. Something that totally shocked me and put me in a sour mood the rest of the day.

So whenever our Church service gets over, we usually walk towards the taxi stand in front of Hanging Garden, where we chat for a short while over a glass of nimbu paani, and then say goodbye to each other. As most of us are busy with our own work (or academics) and Mumbai is such a large city, that is the only time we get to catch up with our Mizo friends in Mumbai.

Day before yesterday, at the nimbu paani stall, a Police van suddenly stopped in front of some of the younger Mizos standing on the pavement (there were many other people on the pavement eating sev puri and alu chaat from the roadside vendors), and the uniformed police van driver angrily shouted at us. I was talking with a friend when that happened, and all I could hear were the words “Nepali” and “Kathmandu”. Then the driver chuckled and drove off.

As the police van drove away, I asked those Mizos who were standing close to the police van about what the cop said. A young Mizo girl, probably in her first year in college, shivered and said, “I think he said hey Nepalis, go back to Kathmandu!” while another guy standing beside her said, “No I think the cop asked if we are going to Kathmandu?”

Appalled.

I took down the license plate number of the police van immediately – MH 01 BA 1089.

First of all, being called a “Nepali” is something  people from the North East are so tired of hearing. I have nothing against Nepalis, but when we are not recognized by our own fellow countrymen in spite of the number of times we protest, something is definitely not right here. Secondly, most of the times when people call us “Nepalis”, it is done so not out of ignorance but out of sheer distaste for people from the North East (read: those of us from the NE with Mongoloid features, because not all Northeasterners have this feature, and likewise, not all Nepalis have this feature either). That word is unfortunately uttered in a very mocking and insulting tone…

But the most important point here is that, that man was a cop. A person who was supposed to protect us minorities when we face such abuses and racial slurs, somebody we could run to in times of trouble. And yet, he was the main perpetrator.

I’ve heard so many stories about how people from the North East didn’t want to approach the police because the cops would usually turn them away, and sometimes they would even get mocked at inside the Police Stations by the cops themselves when they try to file a complaint about other people who had robbed them or harassed them.  You remember when there was a mass exodus of North Eastern people from Bangalore recently, in spite of the cops saying they’ll protect them, right? That’s how much most people from the North East trust cops.

I’ve never believed cops could be that bad because the few times that I was actually inside a Police Station was when I had to file an FIR for losing my phone, which was mandatory back then if I wanted a duplicate sim card from my service provider. The cop who took my statement didn’t abuse me. He didn’t even acknowledge me. He just signed my paper with his seal and sheepishly said, “Next”.

But the Hanging Garden incident definitely left a dent on my faith in the police. And that puts me in a quandary because I don’t know what to do now – Shall I file a complaint at a Police Station or shall I just ignore it knowing nothing will ever happen? And then wait for the cop to have an outburst on some other poor Northeasterner maybe tomorrow or day after tomorrow?

Thinking about it for some time, I now know exactly what I must do. Let’s do away with all the anger and hurt and pain. Let’s reconcile. Let’s do it the Norwegian way.

So here is me, Kima, cordially inviting the police officer who was driving MH 01 BA 1089 on 24th March 2013 around 6 in the evening near Hanging Garden for a cup of tea or coffee. The drinks are on me.  Location, preferably around Bandra, you name the date and time. If communication is going to be a problem, I can always bring one of my Maharastrian friends along as a translator.

We’ll discuss about this issue, about why you might hate Nepalis or people from the North East in general, or maybe about how all this was just a big misunderstanding and we misheard what you actually shouted (but yes, we definitely heard “Nepali” and “Kathmandu”, so no matter what the context was, it wasn’t right). I’d love to tell you about the beautiful North East and its beautiful people, and how there are so many of us INDIANS with Mongoloid features and that we are not Nepalis.

Of course we may all have different problems back home but here in Mumbai, most of us are law abiding citizens who pay our taxes regularly and try not to be a nuisance to the public. Yes we are all aware of how different we look, the contrast in our cultures and traditions, the things that we like and don’t. You think it is easy for most of us to live here, work here, study here, everyday among a group of people so different from us? And yet, most of us have no other choice but to struggle and stay in this city for want of better education or better job opportunities or even because we have to support our families back home.

So dear police officer driving MH 01 BA 1089, you weren’t making things any easier for us with that outburst. Let’s sit down and have delicious tea or coffee together and talk about all the misconceptions you may have about us. Let’s clear all the stereotypes and hypes about us. Because if we don’t, you will never know the truth about us and continue with your blind hate and bigotry against us, and a poor fellow from the North East will be your next victim again. That person may even be more traumatized than some of those young Mizo girls you scared on Sunday. Let’s sit to prevent that, shall we? Peace.

I know this invitation may not even reach the eyes of your fifty-third cousin because I am just a small speck in a universe of bigger things, but at least this speck is willing to give it a try. And knowing I tried will at least make me sleep better tonight as I wasn’t able to the past two nights.

*UPDATE* Cross posted at First Post. Thank you so much Anant Rangaswami.

Chp 445. Sacrificing a friend

Just yesterday, somebody who used to be a good friend of mine sent me a friend request on Facebook. “Used to be a good friend” because her boyfriend back then became insecure about our friendship as we shared a lot of things in common, and so he told her to stop talking to me and “unfriend” me on Facebook.

She even started commenting on my blog using a fake name (she’s an awesome blogger herself). She didn’t use her real blogger account because she was afraid her over-possessive boyfriend might just check my blog posts to see if she commented or not, no matter how insignificant her comments might be. And so we built this great big wall of partition between us, breaking off every single communication.

And then they broke up recently.

So… yeah, she sent me a friend request yesterday. I accepted, with a grin. The first thing I asked her was, “Was it worth it? Was it worth losing a friend?”

“It’s hard to explain,” she said.

I completely understood what she meant because I too lost a dear friend once.

Back in college when N and I were a couple, I had a female bestest friend, Sonam. She was this really adorable chubby Sikkimese junior who I had a lot in common with - same humor, same likes and dislikes, same emotional tolerance, same temper tantrums. 







Even though she was like “one of the boys” to me, N never liked how close we were, and finally told me she couldn’t stand it anymore and that I must choose… Choose between my girlfriend and my bestest friend.

I chose N.

And so I told Sonam she couldn’t call me up in the night anymore to tell me about her crushes or how her day went or who she had a fight with or invite me to one of her friend’s house party. I lost my good friend that day.

N and I had a good run, until we broke up after I graduated. She came from a very conservative Rajasthani family and the chance of them accepting me into their family was extremely small.

It was only after we broke up that I thought of Sonam.

Did I just lose a good friend over nothing?

And that is the part that is difficult to explain, and why I understood my blogger friend when she said it’s hard to say whether it’s worth it or not. Because I wouldn’t exactly call it “over nothing”, as there were many memorable moments shared with my ex as a result of me unfriending Sonam.

But still, the idea of having to choose was very difficult. I knew for a fact that N didn’t want to be the bad guy in that situation. I’ve seen her tried, but no matter how hard she tried to push away any feelings of jealousy, it made her very uncomfortable whenever Sonam and I were together. I didn’t want N to be uncomfortable or sad as we were both in love back then. Hence I had to make the ultimate sacrifice and let go of a good friend.

Have you ever been in such a situation where you had to choose between a lover and a friend from the opposite sex? Do share your story with me. 

And oh, speaking of “unfriending”… one of my ex-girlfriends unfriended me on Facebook even though we had a mutual break-up and were in good talking terms with each other until the day she got married. Maybe this is the exact same thing, that I was making her husband uncomfortable, hence she had to unfriend me. Maybe it is a natural and logical reaction to let go of friends and past flames in order to keep the fire of a new relationship burning? Or maybe being jealous is just a part of our human nature and the only thing that differs from person to person is the intensity in which we get jealous?

To end this semi rant, do watch this really touching romantic short play, “The Last”. About past relationships. Guaranteed to move you if you’re the mushy type.



And of course once you’re done watching the above video, do watch the parody, “The Last Resort”. Guaranteed to crack you up with laughter. Cheers! :)





EDIT March 18th: Just so we’re on the clear, don’t assume that I’m this really lucky Casanova who boyfriends tell their girlfriends to stay away from, lolz. Regarding my blogger friend, I wasn’t the only guy her jealous ex-boyfriend told to unfriend. There were a few other guys along with me that she had to unfriend. We even thought of forming a “Unfriended By xxxxx Association” and maybe even run in the upcoming election and win a couple of constituencies so that we’ll have enough power in the Assembly House to pass a new Law banning her from unfriending any more male friends just because her ex boyfriend was super jealous. Lolz. :)

Chp 444. Silence of the nightingales

And from the Heavens above, fire rained down upon the heathens, spreading death, mayhem and destruction everywhere.

A heathen, because he was born in a land that had belonged to his people for generations. A heathen because he refused to bow down to the draconian law of an occupying force.

Yet there was nothing the heathen could do. His voice was silenced by the majority, all acts of transgression erased from history. India never bombed Mizoram (back then, the Lushai Hills district of Assam), and stories about the mass bombings that killed many innocent citizens, razing towns and homes to the ground are just… hearsays, rumors. No, India is a democratic country, the land of Mahatma Gandhi who believed in peace and non violence. How can India ever do that. And yet, the irony is, it was another Gandhi who ordered that very bombing.

"The use of air force was excessive because you cannot pinpoint from the air who is loyal and who is not loyal, who is an MNF and who is somebody pledging allegiance to the Mizo Union, the ruling party in the Mizo district," DD Nichols Roy, an MLA from Assam said.

“But we air-dropped only rice and potatoes”, Indira Gandhi supposedly said, when confronted by the media.

“Then dear PM, please tell us how to cook this type of rice!” survivors of the bombing replied, sending empty bomb shells dropped by Hunter and Toofani jetfighters deployed from Tezpur IAF base on March 5th and 6th, 1966.

I don’t know which is worse, the fact that she blatantly lied, or her condescending tone.

In 1789, France was on the verge of a revolution due to the famine, and it was only when the peasants demanded more bread to feed their starving stomachs and Queen Marie Antoinette sarcastically said “Why just bread, let them eat cake” that ignited the whole bloody revolution. The French Royal family and their sympathizers were guillotined and a new France was born.

What’s the connection here? Famine and utter neglect lead to an uprising.

Mizos didn’t suddenly decide to rebel against India. The great famine of 1959 was what triggered the movement. The bamboos flowered, increasing the number of rats by multifold. The rodents ate up most of the food stock of the people. And despite the Mizos’ many pleas sent to the Indian government for aid, nothing was done, so the MNFF (Mizo National Famine Front) was formed, where every Mizo looked after their own, sending food, no matter how scarce to those who needed them more. Urban legend has it that one quarter of the Mizo population was wiped out in that famine.

Finally when the famine was over and the rat population diminished, people said enough was enough, and the MNFF became the MNF (Mizo National Front), with the sole agenda of gaining independence from a ruler who didn’t give a rat’s ass about the people.

That was why the MNF, which wasn’t even an outlawed group then, overran various government institutions during Operation Jericho with which the uprising began in 1966.

And then came the bombs. Hell was unleashed on Earth and the simple minded Mizos came face to face with fury and fear like never before. Everywhere there were just… explosions, ashes, corpses, mangled remains of what once used to be a market, a school, a hospital, a church. Entire localities like Dawrpui and Chhinga Veng were completely razed to the ground.

The MNF movement was never a totalitarian one. There were a large number of Mizos who didn’t share the MNF’s agenda of a sovereign Mizo nation. The ruling political party MU (Mizo Union) was in fact pro-India. But what happened that day changed the mindset of most people.

I wasn’t born when the bombings took place, but being a Mizo, it is a part of our dark history that I can never forget… will never forget. I look into the eyes of all those who were there during the bombing, the lucky ones who survived, and I see pain, submission, reclusiveness. As if a part of them died that day, not knowing where the next bomb was going to land. Like being in the middle of a war zone, except you weren’t shooting back at the enemy. Regardless of whether you were a part of the MNF or a pro-India faction, the bombs didn’t discriminate who’s who. Everybody was a target, true to the words of GL Nanda, the then Union Home Minister who gave the command – “Crush them all!”

All you could do then was just run from shelter to shelter, helter-skelter, tired, scared, traumatized.

And in the aftermath of the bombings, PTSD was definitely the ailment of the day for anybody who went through such a horrible and terrifying ordeal. Yet there were no such medical facilities back then to deal with the tremendous trauma. What followed instead was way worse. Out of the existing 764 villages, 516 were forcefully evacuated and squeezed into 110 PPVs (Protected and Progressive Villages), described as something like the concentration camps of Auschwitz, minus the gas chambers where everybody was herded into designated militarized zones under martial law. Stories of torture and rape committed by the Indian Army echoed across the once peaceful silent valley, bleeding Mother Nature of its tranquil innocence. Yes, we are all offsprings of a damaged and abused generation.

Every March 5th, I shed a tear. For my lost brothers and sisters who never made it past that day. And for the others who did make it through but had their spirit and soul violently ripped out from their physical selves.

Yes, I’m an Indian. I’ve come to love this country, but remembering those dark days doesn’t make me any less patriotic. We all come from different backgrounds, with our own baggage and nightmares.

I look at today’s people now, and what most people seem to think is, “Why don’t you Mizos forget about that incident? India doesn’t even acknowledge bombing you so just forget about it. The past is the past, move on.” Moving on is an easy thing to say if you are not a part of the atrocities, just like how some people recently demanded an apology from the visiting British Prime Minister for the Jallianwala Bagh massacre, or from other people like the Babri Masjid demolition, the storming of the Golden Temple, the Anti-Sikh riot, etc. Everybody wants an apology because in a way, that heals things to an extent, no matter how superficial it may be.

But for many of my brothers and sisters who died on this day 46 years ago, to most Indians, they’re just collateral damage. People who died from an air attack India never ordered or heard of. They became the ghosts of an unspoken folklore, nightingales whose voices would never be heard again.

They may be silenced, but our words will live on forever. On this day, every year, the heathens will rise and speak for them. And speak we shall.

God bless Mizoram.

Chp 443. Flightless

A smoke filled room. Ganja. And a flightless body.

The dog runs around his master, wagging his tail excitedly, waiting for his master to throw the stuffed toy.

“Master, master, I’m hungeee!”

“Master, master, stop learning how to fly, you’re not Superman!”

“Master, master, when is Aunty Muani coming over again? I miss her smell, her touch, how she would give me treats behind your back just because you think I don’t deserve them. Are you learning how to fly to her house, hahaha!”

Sawma loves his dog. But more than that, he loves Muani, the soul mate that he was always meant to have. They met at the Mumbai Mizo Association "Chapchar Kut" function, and had been inseparable since.

Sawma had always been an introvert. Reddit, Pink Floyd, weed, those were Sawma’s best friends. And then suddenly Muani came into his life. Everything changed.

At first, Muani was against Sawma adopting a puppy.

“How can you even think of owning a pet? I have to come to your house every week to change your bed sheet. You must first learn how to look after yourself, and then only consider having pets!”

That was Muani. Always concerned. Always caring. She was in Mumbai for her UPSC coaching class. Hard working, studious and serious. Sawma on the other hand was employed at a financial firm, where life was all about performance and showing up in office on time. He was also a geek who had never missed a single ComiCon fest in Mumbai. CosPlay was his favorite. Superman was his idol and he would always dress up as the Man of Steel.

“Wish I can fly directly to your house so as to beat this maddening Mumbai rush hour traffic!” had been the line Muani would always remember. Geeky as it sounded, that was what made Muani’s knees weak. That was why she loved Sawma so much.

Until that fateful day when a local bus with a malfunctioned brake rammed into her on her way back from coaching class, killing her on the spot.

Sawma was in the middle of a meeting about quarterly performance when he got the call. A passerby had dialed the last called number from her bloodied phone.

That night, back from the morgue, Sawma entered his flat. His dog greeted him with the same excitement and enthusiasm.

“Oh you oblivious fool.”

Yet the dog jumped around him, licking the feet of the master he loved so much.

“Master, master, don’t look so down. Did you not get your appraisal again? I’m here for you, tell me what’s wrong…”

“Master, master, why are you smoking that awful smelling thing again? You know Aunty Muani hates that right?”

“Master, master, is that a new toy you bought for me? Oh boy oh boy, I love ropes!”

“Master, master, oh finally you are learning how to fly! Yay, now you can fly to Aunty Muani’s house... but take me along too puleeze?”

“Master, master, ok I will wait right here until you perfect your flying skill and come back to the ground. Good night master, I love you.”

A smoke filled room. Ganja. And a lifeless body.

Chp 442. A Valentine’s Day Post: Love Birds

A friend of mine asked me yesterday, “So are you going to write about Valentine’s Day tomorrow on your blog again?”

The mockery was obvious.

Ever since I started blogging, I’ve been in four relationships. It may sound like a big deal to some, but remember I’ve been blogging since 2004 :P That’s like 2.6 years per relationship on an average, which I’m sure is much longer than the relationships many of you judgmental friends out there ever had :) Not to forget I was extremely irresponsible and reckless back then too…

Three of my relationships ended and one has just started (of course it would be awkward and completely douchebaggery of me if more than one relationships are currently active, duh :P ).

But the point he was trying to make was clear. He, being a single for as long as I can remember, I guess he was amused at how I can say the L word again to somebody new.

Well that is love.

You meet somebody you totally fall heads over heels in love with, and you say “I love you” to that person, and later when that doesn’t work out for various reasons, you grow apart, the distance becomes less fonder and the relationship ends, then you meet somebody else you fall more in love with than the former. That is love.

It’s a part of our natural cycle. In fact the only person I know who is now married (and with two kids) to the same girl he was going around with when we were just mere teenagers, is my good friend Sanga. They’ve been together since their early teens I think. That’s like a Fairy Tale come true for many of you.

Unfortunately, that’s not how it is for most of us. We move on, from one relationship to the other, until we find that perfect someone. And everything is perfect when we’re in that particular relationship, until they become imperfect.

I’m not trying to dampen your Valentine mood. I’m just saying… love, as much superficial as it may be sometimes, is something we go running to at the end of the day. Because that is what we all need, somebody to love, and be loved. A mutual feeling. (As somebody just updated her Facebook status today, “Anyone who loves in the expectation of being loved in return is wasting their time”. Beautiful.)

Today being Valentine’s Day, I was awakened by the two pigeons who’d fly into my bathroom everyday for the past 4 days, making love on top of my geyser.

They’d fly in through a gap on my bathroom window…

One would wait for the other dutifully…

Until the other partner too flies in…

And I try my best not to disturb them, except when I’m running late for work, or when our cat Gaddaffi gets extra curious…

Today, watching the two love birds, pun intended, cuddle together and get all lovey dovey, I suddenly missed my girl more.

But as you may have read in my previous post, I have quit my job at WebChutney and started a new mobile gaming company with my friends. The name of our company is called FITH Media Pvt Ltd and we have just launched our first game called Nikal Padi.

Starting a new company is by no means a bed of roses. The amount of stress and pressure we go through every day is tremendous, but just one short whatsapp message from her really calms me down. She’s been my rock, and on this day I just want to say again how much I appreciate her for being there for me all this time.

I don’t wanna sound any more pretentious by saying things here that we say to each other every day anyway, and I don’t want to plaster private photos of us together all over my blog. She doesn’t want me to do that either. But there is one photo that means a lot to me, to us, and that has to be up here on this Valentine’s Day.

So here it is…

Yes, one of the earliest photographs taken in Mizoram, entitled “The first Men (fathers) of Mission Veng (locality name), 1964”. Did my grandfather and her great-grandfather ever think one day that we’d be a couple, deeply in love with each other, when the two of them were sitting right next to each other while posing for this valuable photograph? :)

Maybe. That’s probably why they look so confident and contented together :)

Happy Valentine’s Day everyone, and cheers.

*commenting disabled, sorry trolls and haters* :) :P

Chp 441. Goodbye old job. Hello new job.

You don’t love your job. You love your industry.

Welcome to the cutthroat world of digital advertising. Where you slog your ass off for 16 hours a day, usually 7 days a week, sometimes even camp in office for 3-4 days straight due to an extremely important pitch, partly because you want to succeed and rise up the corporate ladder, but mainly because you have passion. The passion to excel, the passion to come up with something innovative, something never done before, something… epic.

It’s not just about winning big clients or awards or living from pay cheque to pay cheque so you can throw it all away during a weekend binge; it’s about the gratification you get for having done a good job. Sure, money plays a big role, I’m not being naïve here, but the priceless look on your clients’ or peers’ or boss’ eyes when you present an idea to them that makes them go “wow”, is the exact reason why you put yourself through all these.

Commitment.

Of course we’re in an industry that has a love-hate relationship with clients. It is no secret that Admen bitch about clients for many reasons, like when they reject proposals we know will definitely work out for them. Clients may know their business more than us, but we know our industry more than them and we can indeed predict what will work out or not. Or when clients fail to grasp the very basic of what we do and try to steamroll us [Hilarious example would be from The Oatmeal].

But I also had my fair share of clients where I was the one pushing them to do this and do that and even ended up doing some of their work, just because I was committed to my goal.

That’s our industry.

And today, I must announce that I am leaving this industry, the industry that I love.

Almost five years now in Webchutney, ranked number 1 digital agency in India for 2008, 2009 and 2011, I am now one of the oldest employees in terms of duration. Corporate life is tough, especially when it comes to advertising. We see people getting fired or hopping companies all the time. To remain in the leading agency of India for such a long term had indeed been a privilege and honor for me.

Not to blow one’s own trumpet, but the amount of offers I had from other agencies, with much higher pay grade and designation, is something I’ll always cherish as an achievement. It showed that I was recognized in our industry. And I have nobody else to thank except Webchutney for that.

Leaving Webchutney doesn’t mean it’s the end of a relationship. I’ll always be loyal to this company, my first ever work experience, my first love. How I walked in and demanded for an interview as a fresher without any appointment and got a job will always be talked about. And how I rose up from copywriter trainee without even knowing what copywriters do, to junior copywriter, to copywriter, to senior copywriter, to Creative Trailblazer, all in a span of just 4 years, had indeed been a milestone for me.

But this is not just about me leaving Webchutney. It’s about me leaving this industry altogether. No more advertisement or pitches or client feedbacks. No more social media campaigns and designing newsletters and planning wireframes. A complete new horizon…

I’m moving into the Mobile Internet Gaming space! :)

I’ve always been a passionate gamer, and this is the exact field I want to be in. Scratch that. This is the exact field I have to be in. It’s in my DNA.

The journey from here is going to be about taking risks. And chances. And about the desire to be one of the pioneers before the herd moves in. The first-mover's advantage. Sure every person working in the digital field cribs about how extremely low internet penetration is here in India. And so everybody’s waiting for the great big Indian internet boom, but with the fast pace in which the global internet industry is moving, we strongly believe the future here in India too is not desktop internet, but rather phone and tablet internet (including the name of the genre I hate so much – phablet!). And that’s where we’re going to focus – A market sparsely penetrated here in India.

“But India has just 12% internet penetration, if you take away people with desktop internet access and focus only on mobile internet, that’s an even smaller percentage”

We’re well aware of that. But we’re also aware of the prospect that Indian internet mobile users can cross the 100 million mark before the end of this year! Brace yourself; an internet hurricane is going to sweep the Indian mobile world. Are you going to watch the storm pass by from a safe distance, or would you rather ride the lightning?

If things don’t work out, well, then, shit happens. But hey, we’ve been around for a long time and firmly believe in what we do. So do wish us all the best. And even if we don’t succeed, what is life if one doesn’t take any risks, right? Hehe… cheers y’all.

:)

   

Chp 440. “Blog Cemetery” revisited

Call me vain, but sometimes when I’m bored, I do go through some of my old blog posts, especially the short stories I’ve written during those days when I was easily inspired, and reminisce about the good old times. I still get inspired today, but such inspirations are now related to my line of work which has nothing to do with writing.

Below is a short story I wrote back in June, 2009. I’m just reposting it here in case you want to read it. I’m not pushing it in your face to read it, but yeah, I would appreciate it if you do. It’s a short story which may sound a little bit geeky too, and I’m reposting it here as it was, with minor editing here and there to make the story even more interesting. The only big difference between the post below and the original in 2009, is the location of the IP address I have used in my story. What was once Wichita, Texas…

…is now Columbus, Ohio! (The Ohio Statehouse to be precise, thanks to Google Maps)

Lolz :)

But that doesn’t change the crux of my story in any way, so here you go – one of my favorite short stories, taken from Chp 247. Blog Cemetery. Enjoy :)

------------------------------------------

BLOG CEMETERY

Pinggggggg!!!

The sound echoed spookily across the silent bedroom. Mathew’s heart skipped a beat. It was a chat alert notification. At two in the morning, Mathew wasn’t expecting anybody to come online and chat with him, especially since he had set his status as invisible.

“Maybe somebody took a gamble to see if I’m online or not,” he thought. So saying, he quickly saved his ongoing AOE-III campaign and minimized the game window. He clicked on the blinking Yahoo messenger to see who was trying to chat with him at such a strange hour in the morning.

It was Bobby.

Mathew raised his eyebrows in surprise. He had known Bobby since high school and they had been inseparable right through college. And then suddenly, ever since that fateful night at “Jalwaa Dhaba”, they had never spoken to each other again. Bobby still blamed him for the death of Pooja, even though he was never involved in her gruesome murder. Pooja… Bobby’s fiancée… brutally raped and murdered… Bobby of course knew that his best friend Mathew was innocent, but he also knew that Mathew’s hands weren’t entirely clean either…

The chat transcript showed,

“Laid low, very low,
In the dark we must lie.
The merry glees are still;”

Mathew’s eyes widened. Bobby continued to type…

“The voice of the bird
Shall no more be heard,
Nor the wind on the hill.”

Mathew thought for a few seconds and then smiled. He punched in the words quickly.

“All things will die, by Lord Alfred Tennyson.”

Mathew used to play this game with Bobby back in College. They would suddenly quote lines from a poem and ask the other to guess the name of the poem and poet. Mathew found it strange that Bobby would break the ice after nearly two years of silence this way, but quickly brushed it aside with the thought, “Ah, it’s just Bobby”.

Bobby continued typing the same poem, “All things were born. Ye will come never more, for all things must die.”

Mathew stared at the chat transcript for some time, and then finally replied.

“So, bro. How have you been???? Where the hell are you now?”

No reply.

Mathew waited for a few more minutes, and then finally typed, “You there????”

Still no reply.

A chilled air suddenly blew across the bedroom and Mathew immediately got a few goose bumps. He looked around his bed nervously. Then he stared at the chat console once more and the message appeared, “Bobby is now offline”.

Mathew sat motionless for a few more seconds and then quickly shut-downed his system. He dived into bed immediately and feebly muttered, “That’s weird,” before falling off to sleep.

------------------------------------------

A week later, Mathew had almost forgotten that strange incident, when he checked his mail and saw a new alert from his feedreader. It was an update notification from Bobby’s blog feed that he had subscribed to a long time ago!

“Whoah,” he exclaimed.

Mathew immediately clicked on the link. He landed on Bobby’s blog, surprised to see that it was the first update after 2 years!

“Damn Bobby, you lazy old fart,” Mathew smiled.

Bobby’s new post was a poem…

I was angry with my friend:
I told my wrath, my wrath did end.
I was angry with my foe:
I told it not, my wrath did grow.

And I watered it in fears,
Night and morning with my tears;
And I sunned it with smiles,
And with soft deceitful wiles.

And it grew both day and night,
Till it bore an apple bright.
And my foe beheld it shine.
And he knew that it was mine,

And into my garden stole
When the night had veiled the pole;
In the morning glad I see
My foe outstretched beneath the tree.

Mathew read it slowly and carefully. His eyes lit up as he was familiar with the poem. He clicked on the comment section and typed, “A Poison Tree, by William Blake.” He clicked on “Publish your comment”.

And then he thought for a moment and wrote another comment.

“Dudeeee. You spooked me a little bit the other night. Did you get disconnected or something? Catch me on chat tonight, around 11 pm’ish. We have soooo much to catch up on!”

He clicked on “Publish your comment” again and his comment appeared for the second time on Bobby’s new blog post.

Suddenly the monitor flickered and the electricity in his apartment went off.

“Crap,” Mathew cursed.

------------------------------------------

Another week went by and still no word from Bobby. Mathew was starting to worry a bit. Bobby had never treated him this way before. But then again, considering the way Bobby had partially blamed him for Pooja’s death, he was not surprised.

Suddenly, there was a knock on his door.

Mathew opened the door to see two burly men in cheap brown suits.

“Yes, may I help you?”

“Mr. Mathew Jacob?”

“Yes?”

“May we come in please?”

“Urmmm… who are you?”

“We’re from the CID…”

“Oh! Crime Investigation Department?”

“Criminal Investigation Department.”

“Oh… Okaaay…”

Mathew led them inside and as they all sat down, one of them got to the point immediately.

“Mr. Mathew. I believe you know a certain Mr. Ajay Poonawalla and a Mr. Sebastian Chandy?”

Dark memories came flooding back immediately. Mathew blurted out… “AJ and Sebby… Yes, I know them… I mean… I knew them. Haven’t spoken to them in almost… two years now I think.”

The two men looked at each other, and the taller man with the spectacles spoke, “We know that. We’ve been checking on your online activities at Orkut, Facebook and Twitter. You have not followed them back on Twitter in spite of them following you, and you have not added them as a friend in Orkut or Facebook, even though the three of you have so many common friends.”

Blood rushed to Mathew’s face immediately.

“What???? You’ve been checking up on me? Invading my privacy? On what grounds??? How dare you…”

“Relax,” the stouter man assured calmly. “I am Inspector Verma and this is Inspector Rana. We are both from the Cyber Crime unit of CID. This is what we do. The two of us are working together on this case.”

“What case?”

“Well… two years ago, you were involved in the death of a certain Miss Pooja Dhania, right?”

Mathew’s eyes popped wide open.

“I was acquitted. I was never there at that time of the night!”

“Right. You were acquitted. But your friends Ajay Poonawalla and Sebastian Chandy…”

“They are NOT my friends!”

“They raped her, right?”

Mathew’s mouth trembled in anger. He screamed, “Yes! They bloody raped her, those bastardssss! And then they murdered her after…”

“And what happened at the trial?”

Mathew hung his head down… and slowly whispered, “They were acquitted too. Lack of evidence, the Court said. They had their own alibi, just because Ajay’s father is a fucking Minister.”

The taller Inspector now spoke in an empathizing tone.

“And to this day you blame yourself because…”

“Because,” tears flowed down Mathew’s cheeks. “Because I was the one who took Pooja to the party that night. Bobby couldn’t make it, and since we were all close friends, she went with me. But at the party, I got lucky and went for a ride with another girl. I left her alone! Goddammit, I left her alone for those animals to rape her!!! By the time I reached the party venue again to pick her up…”

Mathew broke down.

Inspector Rana got up from his chair and sat right next to Mathew. He kept his hands on Mathew’s shoulder and said, “Mr. Mathew. We need your help on our case…”

A teary eyed Mathew finally looked up and tried his best to maintain his composure, “What case is this?”

“A few days ago, Ajay and Sebastian were brutally murdered.”

Mathew was now sitting up straight and listening attentively. If there was any feeling of exuberance, he did not show it.

“Murdered?”

“Yes. Both of them were killed at the same time, in the same fashion, even though they were miles apart from each other. Strangulated while sitting in front of their respective computers.”

Inspector Verma joined in, “The weird thing is, the postmortem revealed that they were strangled from the inside, with finger marks INSIDE their throats.”

“How is that even possible?” Mathew asked in surprise.

“We are not sure. But the coroner’s report has revealed that they were killed at the same time you left a comment on your friend Bobby’s blog last week!”

“What? Oh no… that’s not possible… I mean it could be a coincidence. You mean the exact same time?”

“Not exactly exact,” Inspector Rana corrected. “They were killed at the exact time a new post was published on Bobby’s blog. You commented a few minutes after that.”

Mathew now laughed nervously.

“See… like I said, it could be a coincidence… And I am sure Bobby is not the type to take vengeance, even though he still blamed me for Pooja’s death… I can vouch for Bobby’s innocence…”

“His innocence is confirmed, Mr. Mathew… I’m sorry to tell you this now, but your friend Bobby… he passed away two weeks ago… a bus accident in Kashmir… They fell off a gorge at around 2 in the morning…”

Mathew froze. His face became as white as sheet.

Now it was the two inspectors’ turn to be worried.

“What’s the matter? Are you alright?” Inspector Verma asked.

“Two weeks ago… at around 2 in the morning… Bobby came online and chatted with me on yahoo messenger…” Mathew blurted out.

A long dead silence followed, freezing the room. None of them knew what to say next.

Finally, Mathew nervously said something to break the deafening silence.

“That is why… the cyber crime unit is involved? You think this may be the work of some hacker or prankster with a sick twisted mentality, right? Right?”

He was trying hard to convince himself that this was not what it sounded like.

“Well... we have traced the ip address of the person who wrote that post on Bobby’s blog. We thought it would be rerouted or the ip scrambled, but it was a simple direct ip.”

“Who was it?” Mathew asked, still trying to come to terms with the fact that one of his closest friends had been dead for two weeks and he never knew about it.

“We’re not sure. The ip address was based at somewhere near Wichita in Texas, America. Yet when we contacted the police there, they said that the place has been deserted for years.”

Inspector Rana opened his laptop and showed Mathew the location of the ip address.

“Interpol has also confirmed that this has been a deserted farmhouse for many years now.”

And then, Mathew looked at the ip address… something was familiar about it… extremely familiar… and then it hit him. He froze as if he had just seen the ghost of his dead friend.

Inspector Verma shook him hard, “Mathew, Mathew, are you alright son?”

With a trembling voice, Mathew lifted his fingers slowly and shakily pointed at the ip address…

“That ip address… 214.80.07.52. That's 21st April ’80, 7:52am. That is the exact date and time Bobby was born.”