Things That Bang

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In the end just about everyone needs sex. It is a biological urge. But its not necessary that it should be done with a sentient being- human or animal;) Sex toys have been around for a long time. Female sex toys especially have been more or less acceptable and the users are not considered to be weirdos what ever be their orientation. The attitude that has been most popular is - more power to them.

But male sex toys somehow never were enjoyed the same status quo of male empowerment. No one said- Who needs women when you have flashlight you can shove your prick into and have a mind blowing orgasm?

Or for that matter held up a pink colored latex vagina that looked as if it had been left half munched by a demon and said - here is where I ejaculate!

Even the dolls are called blow dolls. And the picture it brings to mind is instantaneous gratification but its more than that for many doll owners:

"Sidore provides more than sexual fulfilment. When people think sex doll, they think blow-up toys or something really crude. Not something you can actually have a relationship with. I don't consider myself a doll fetishist. I consider myself a doll husband."

They do want sex, intimacy but without any strings attached. Some consider women to be too much trouble, some had bad experiences and some even want their future girlfriends to accept the doll as part of the relationship package.

Of course at the end of the tunnel it would be sex with the machine- the android. As it is a report was carried out in Japan that the Japanese men preferred sex with their toys rather than women. Sex was more fantastic and less troublesome.

Those are the Japanese for you but again being humans we get attached to our favorite gadgets don't we? The iPhone, the home theater system, the sexy 48 inches LCD screen, the game counsels etc so why not the favorite sex toy or the blow doll?

Sex Toys are just another form of adult entertainment. If the women can accept them as part of their sex life why is it so difficult for straight Joes who like their pleasures enhancers to be more open about them? Isn't it time straight men liberated their sexuality from society's restrictions?

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Today was a day of revelation for me. I held back tears when memories of misery and utter frustration rained down on me while I waited for my children's bus to come. I had inadvertently stumbled on a condition that made me realize I wasn't dumb as a doorknob when it came to mathematics.

For years I believed I had some kind of a dyslexia. I could read and write well but when it came to math I was just plain dumb. My brain would shut down and the numbers wouldn't make sense. I still cannot handle change.

Yesterday at a grocery store, the cashier muttered something about owing two rupees and I wondered whether the store owed me 2 rupees or I owed them. I got nervous and antsy. Who owed who? My brain came to a standstill. Dumb Dee Dumb it sang to me. I cleared my throat and asked - Do I owe you? The reply was a no and I was shown the bill and explained the difference.

I didn't hate myself at that moment. I have long since accepted my condition - dumb and a secret I've long since kept.

The DfES defines dyscalculia as:

A condition that affects the ability to acquire arithmetical skills. Dyscalculic learners may have difficulty understanding simple number concepts, lack an intuitive grasp of numbers, and have problems learning number facts and procedures. Even if they produce a correct answer or use a correct method, they may do so mechanically and without confidence.

Dyscalculia is dyslexia for numbers. But unlike dyslexia, very little is known about its prevalence, causes or treatment. Current thinking suggests that it is a congenital condition, caused by the abnormal functioning of a specific area of the brain. People with dyscalculia experience great difficulty with the most basic aspects of numbers and arithmetic.

Best estimates indicate that somewhere between 3% and 6% of the population are affected. These statistics refer to those who are ‘purely’ dyscalculic – i.e. they only have difficulties with maths but have good or even excellent performance in other areas of learning.

Its not the end of the world to finally put a tag on what I have lived with all my life. There will be those who would deny the condition. Those who'd say I could have worked harder, been less lazy, less dumb, less paranoid, less angry, even less suicidal but it doesn't take away the condition or the fact that there are those who suffer from it.

Its close to nightfall and I cradle an empty feeling in my heart. I finally know that some part of my brain is different, I know why I always scored so low in IQ tests. There is no triumphant feeling that I made it despite my disability. There is no other feeling except the knowledge that I am not dumb and that this disability made me who I am.

Related Article: Inside story: dyscalculia

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Related Article :pinkpentacle.com

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Dunno what to make of - the Miraculous Winking Jesus

On April 23rd 1996, this picture of Jesus Christ miraculously winked at me. This experience has changed my life. Over seventeen hundred and forty thousand people have come to witness this miracle. Many people have had a lot to say about their experience. If you are fortunate enough to witness this image of Jesus Christ wink, please tell your friends and family about this miracle!
- Rev. Jonathan C. Chance (Internet Field Missionary)

Do You?

PS: No jesus juice ad but one for an anal cream. Does he wink and promote the cream?

I will surely burn in hell for sayin' it.

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Orissa and Mangalore suffered from the wrath of those wanting to protect their religion. Religious skirmishes causing deaths, burned homes and daily living coming to a standstill. How moronic can people get? Believe in my god, no my god, my church, my temple. It all boils down to - me!! The ego!!

So I asked whether the soul dies, a friend replied that its part of the undying soul. And I replied- oh yeah, even Santa doesn't die, though, the hogfather in Terry Pratchett's book did go missing.

Its a matter of believing that there is a divine force managing all our lives coming down the chimney and dropping presents and if you aren't nice no presents for you or its sickness, death (we all die!!) or lack of protection with you losing a limb, going blind- blah blah

Of course the - Oh God! Why me? is said by so many. Even in the direst circumstances they ask to be saved. Saved by who? Does he get to sit on his high chair and say - You can live another day and you - ah well you are to die -like - NOW!!

I was cleaning my kitchen today and decided to put an end to all the little lives that had been scuttling around. The insect killing spray came out and in the chemical fumes I saw the roaches die- babies and adults alike. The pleasure of deliberate killing made me a cruel goddess.

I am the goddess of my hearth. I get to decide which insect gets to live and which dies. So how different am I from the God sitting up in the heaven playing roulette with our lives?

And like the God above I let miracles happen too - letting a roach escape and him thanking the roach god for his miraculous escape;)

Like the Hogfather its time God too went missing for a while!! And guess what? We all will still be here.

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At a red light today I saw a beggar woman with a kid nursing on her breast. The baby was in a sling and the mother begged while the kid half heartedly chewed her nipple.

No one cared. She went up to people on bikes, cars, trucks and even bicycles but people waved her away. No one gawked. Think that shows India has improved or has less voyeuristic tendencies?

Actually it's quite the opposite. If there was a middle class woman breast feeding the entire traffic would have come to a standstill. I am exaggerating but you get the drift. No one cares about the poor. Especially those barely scraping the bottom.

I remember as a kid seeing an emaciated man lying outside the Gate of our school church. He suffered from acute dysentery and his feces lay around him.

We all averted our eyes and walked on. I was six at the time and did what everyone else did, covered my nose and look away from naked man who could just as well have been dying.

The next day he wasn't there and the place had been cleaned up. Who knew what happened to the man?

The memory stayed with me just like the one of seeing another poor man left at the gate of AIIMS hospital in Delhi. Filthy, deranged man crying for help but we all moved on.

These are the people who fall through the cracks and never make it back up again.

They are no different from us - humans and yet we treat them worse than animals. No one speaks for them, no one sees them, they are the forgotten ghosts living amongst us. Are they even considered to be citizens of this country? What rights do they have?

Once in a while they leave a mark, a bruise on our conscious demanding that we see them for what they are - people no different from us.

A small beggar child with a naughty smile or a old emaciated man who cowered thinking he was being hit when all the other individual did was hand him over some loose change.

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All the plans of big shots, all the desires of our governing masters, all the wishes and dreams of people who imagine themselves to be larger and more important than the rest of us, melt like snow on a sunny day.
-----------------------Jeffrey Tucker

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She snuggled down in the warm cocoon the quilt made. It was cold and her feet felt as if blocks of ice held her lower limbs hostage. She rubbed her feet against each other but little good did it do. A cramp threatened her calves. Winters!! She loved the season but hated what it did to her during the freezing nights.

She lay back and wondered if she’d be able to sleep. It was bloody one in the night and she had to get up at seven. Bloody hell, another sleep deprived night.

Gentle snores from her left side made her roll her eyes. He was one of those lucky ones who fell asleep the minute their heads hit the pillow. The snores became louder and she got a little more exasperated. The train had arrived and snores bellowed its announcement.

Snores and cold feet- nice combination to help while away another night. She lay back and looked at the ceiling. The cold room made her ears hurt. She could feel them turning red.

The temperature must have dropped below zero she was sure. Her calf muscles tightened- bloody cramp. She sat up and rubbed her legs vigorously to get the circulation working and lay back.

The quilt became cold and she froze. His snores began to sound like an entire orchestra playing in their bed. She kicked him hard against his shins like she had the night before.

“Whaaat?” he woke up, sat up and wildly stared around the room.

She feigned sleep.

“What?” he asked again.

She smiled in the dark. He rubbed his eyes and looked around again.

He was awake just like her. Good.

He turned and looked at her outline and switched on the nearby lamp.

“Did you say something?” he asked

She blinked; her eyes took time to get used to the bright orange glare.

“Why did you wake me up?” she pulled the quilt till her chin.

He trembled a little and the hair on his arms stood up. Goose bumps. Who told him to sleep bare chest?

“I didn’t mean to wake you up. I don’t know why I woke up.” He looked lost.

“Well, now that you are awake could you do me a favour?” She asked him

“Hmm?” he reached over towards the night stand where he had left a T-shirt and pulled it on.

In the light he looked like a school boy with his tumbled hair and sleepy eyes.

His voice had a drowsy timber and his whimsical smile made her heart melt.

“Could you rub my legs for me? I have a cramp.” She asked

“Oh! You poor baby.” He reached under the quilt and rubbed her legs.

She drifted off to sleep. Soft snores whooshed next to him. He lay back; pulled the quilt up and thought- What now?

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Serial Blasts rock Delhi this evening- Karol Bagh, Greater Kailash-1, Connaught Place and currently they are defusing bombs at Regal and India Gate.
The relatively new Indian Mujahideen claimed responsibility for these blasts, as with the Jaipur and Ahmedabad blasts, sending an e-mail to media channels minutes before the first blast. Following this, recent reports indicate that the SIMI (Students Islamic Movement of India) also claimed responsibility, calling it "Operation BAD" for Bangalore-Ahmedabad-Delhi, and indicating a probable link with the IM, if not many claimants to a dubious crown. An advisory was issued earlier to New Delhi and Chennai, following the arrest of senior SIMI leaders after the Ahmedabad blasts.

More news at Desicritics.org

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Link: Pixdaus

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Why do I get forwards? I tell them- spam me no more but I get love spams, mommy spams, spams of people going blind, lame, getting cancer, people needing money but no one giving money but spamming others for the money. Spamming is the new how do you do!!

Send me a stumble if you like something, send me a link if you please, send me a kiss, a hug or a simple- hi thought of you but a forward and I zinc you with thousand spams in your mail boxes- the type that says- 12 inch dongs, free viagra pills, hot snatches for sale, kittie style, doggie style, smut for mutts or coprophagia for your pleasure alone.

Forwards are so 90s, just like hotmail is so cliched. Do you still hug that email id? Bet you do just like you too send forwards. Don't ya swear they are meaningful ones.

All those soppy puppies and kitties, all those feel good copy pasted Hall mark writings make me role my eyes and the jokes make me wanna scratch my eyes out.

Wanna send me a forward? It better be in official capacity or else its gonna be me sending you some very innovative stuff to show my lovin'.

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Under the blue sky she lay and watched the clouds sail by. Sublime Madonna with a beatific smile she remembered lovers - mundane and exciting; she remembered riches and poverty. She remembered love and betrayal. Cotton bunny rabbits she carved in the sky - each cloud dissected with a blood tipped knife. Red-White and eyes the color of frozen icy- Blue

Fluffy tails, she imagined scampering around in the field of blue, playing hide and seek with the sun, with the hidden stars and with her mind. She drew rabbits with the knife- blue knife as blue as her heart. Cold, reeking of damaged emotions, she carved their hearts out like she carved the hearts before- human hearts that bled red and not blue.

Blue - the soothing color of heaven burned like red in her mind. Bluer than indigo- bluer than her cold murderous heart was her soul. Blue, barren and endless.

Blue eyes, blue heart and a soul the color of serene water- peaceful evil she carved out cotton rabbits in the sky and men on earth.

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While reading Harold's remarkable - Opium Eaters, which happens to be the final novel to the three part saga (One Way To Pakistan, Oath of Vengeance and Opium Eaters) I was quite taken in by his in depth knowledge of Muslim Culture.

And as mentioned in the Preface of his second novel he is well acquainted with the people of Afghanistan and Pakistan. His love for the culture, food and understanding of the social customs and Islam itself makes the book a fantastic read. The storyline is fast paced and the characters are complex.

In many ways his books reflect the complex Islamic world where things cannot be simply seen as Black and White. Despite showing the suffering of women in the Islamic patriarchal fold in its bleakest form Harold also showed their fighting spirit where within the existing system they tried to live the best lives possible and even fight to save their honor.

The men folk living their lives according to the Islamic way (religion, after all, is a way of life for most) either used women as nothing more than slaves for their pleasure or some even tried to treat them as foretold by the Prophet.

What was surprising was the element of official and non official marriages through which a single man could have multiple wives and even 'sex slaves' which were ideally to be considered as female servants and to be treated fairly but whether that happened would depend upon the master of the house's discretion.

While in the first book Harold acquainted us with the interaction between the expat American community and Pakistanis and the ensuing conflicts in their lives, in the second and third novels the plot line became broader and more politically complex.

In fact the in the third novel- The Opium Eaters Harold showed how Opium funds the Taliban war against America and their imposition of democracy on Afghanistan. And the frustrations of the Americans who are unable to destroy the Opium smuggling from the root source-the tribals areas of Afghanistan to the ports of Pakistan.

Despite introducing new plot lines Harold did not lose track of his old characters and drop them like most authors do. Each character played its part, suffered, some died and some rose like the phoenix despite their circumstances.

Harold has a fluid style of writing and his books make a marvelous read since they show us a world we generally get to read about but rarely are a part of.

Related Article:  Book Review: One Way To Pakistan

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The small beeping flare in his mind drove him crazy. The color red pervaded his entire thinking. His time was expiring. In the color he saw the numbers go down- hours, minutes and seconds. If he did not go to the clone center within the next two hours the population board would break in and get him. Forced Cloning and Forced Adoption.

The chimp experiment had shown isolation made psychopaths and the World Government had mandated each human above the age of 30 had to take care of it’s clone. In case of death the clone became the state warden till a maternal volunteer could be found.

He would know; he came from a maternal home. Maternal had become an asexual term. Anyone who was willing to adopt a DDC (Dead Donor Clone) was called a Maternal Volunteer. His was a gay MV who obsessed over his android.
His MV treated both him and his own clone like android pets – wash, feed and play at required intervals. He and his foster brother grew devoid of emotions. That was the last giant step for humanity - Devoid.

Devoid. He liked that word. He was like an empty vessel that enjoyed the pleasures without consequences. No human, no android required. The mind became the prophet and the senses its disciples. No external stimulation required- he and those of his generation had become islands to themselves.

No bodily contact - no disease, no sex androids- no addiction, no emotions- no war. The world had become greener, no material goods required. The pleasure of knowing it all since birth made those of his generation devoid – devoid to all.

Devoid to all but not to forced cloning. The worst form of slavery, an archaic practice continued by the World Government. Humanity had to go on.

The red flare blinked subtly in his mind.

Blink- you are to be a father

Blink- Father to your self

Blink- Father and the son and the holy ghost

Blink – the ghost was non existential, the father and the son became one

Blink- 2 Hours 0 minutes and 0 seconds left

Blink- Blink- Blink

Red-Red-Red

The color of life, of death, of emotions burned through the cold terrain that made his mind

It repulsed him. It made him feel less devoid. It made him feel out of sync; it made him feel what in the past was called anger.

He grabbed his head and watched the red sweep through his mind. It heightened his senses; his heart beat a little faster. Nerves heightened and the penis stiffened.

The Blinking became erratic. His hand grabbed his penis. No longer devoid, no longer emotionless. His mind raced. Images raced through his mind- woman next door, her naked hairy underarms, her nipples, her vagina.

It wasn’t the pleasure of sex that clogged his mind without the image that happened. That was the usual. No, it was the image of his naked neighbor that crashed against the walls of his virgin mind. Pleasure and the body synced in his mind. The disciples revolted against the prophet. The prophet and disciples became one.

Father and son – one and the same. The spirit joined them together. It was an orgy of oneness.

He sucked in a breath and grabbed his penis. He masturbated like the cave man, the chimp left behind in the sterile rooms of centuries past feeling his nuts, his reason for existence- to be born again through his seed.

No android required, no human required. He still was an island to himself.

Red- the color of pleasure bound him to the woman; bound the hand to the penis. Jerking movements, gaping salivating mouth, the racing heart. Heat and red pounded his mind. The Blinking red rose to a crescendo; the once useless penis jerked squirted its potentiality.

The Blinking continued in his mind like a straddled android humping ceaselessly.

Blink……Blink …….Blink

Red….red….RED….RED……..

“Stop” he muttered “I am coming!! I swear I am!”

He felt fear course through his mind. Fear?! What was that? Emotion? The shivering, the panic, the breathlessness?

How?!

Sirens screeched in his mind.

0:00:00

BLINK!! BLINK!! BLINK!!

His mind betrayed his senses. Cloning, not procreation allowed. Error In Programming. System Crash!!

His heart Blinked RED for the last time. He crumbled to the ground and became non-existential - Devoid.

Related Article: Falling Japanese Population

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Buried Memories brought forth by recent turbulence around the country 

The Guest on Our Doorstep

I still remember a dignified old lady knocking on our gate. I was barely sixteen at the time. I looked over the balcony and answered “Ji, Aunty?”

She looked up at me and I was taken in by her rosy complexion. My grandfather had that kind of translucent pink complexion; he was from Himachal Pradesh.

Maybe she was one of the old fogies from my grandpa’s generation who ma knew.

“Beta, mummy ghar per hai? (Is your mother at home?)” She asked and I assumed she was safe enough to let in despite my not recognizing her.

I let her in; asked her to sit down and told my mom a guest was waiting in the drawing room.

As she went down the stairs Mom told me to get water for the lady.

I went up the stairs grumbling about being made to help out.

When I bought water down I saw the lady crying and my mother sitting next to her. Had there been bad news? Had someone died?

Being a teenager I didn’t want to know. I offered her water. She wiped her eyes with her white lacy dupatta and drank the entire glass. It was a hot day. Maybe she had walked a lot.

I left the room and went back into my room, put on headphones and head banged to Bon Jovi’s – Lay your hands on me.

The desert cooler’s loud grumblings receded to the background as I increased the volume of my new Sony walkman. I was in Bon Jovi heaven.

My mother came in and spoke. I couldn’t hear her. I was annoyed. What now? I thought.

“Don’t let people you don’t know in.” She told me.

I took my head phones off

“But ma I thought she was from the neighborhood. She looked like one of those ladies Bauji knew”

My mother sighed and sat down on my bed.

“She was a Kashmiri pundit. A refugee. Her entire family was killed. She was visiting some relative and needed money. She is living in some temporary camp. No one wants to take her in.”

“Why did she knock on our gate?” I asked

“She was asking for money.” My mother didn’t use the word - begging

“I gave her one thousand rupees. “

My mouth fell open. In the nineties one thousand rupees was a lot.

She smiled at my disbelief

“I cannot begin to comprehend her suffering. It’s such a tragedy. This was the least we could do for her. But you don’t let people in if you don’t know them. Tell them to wait and I will let them in. Okay?”

“But ma – it’s rude to keep people waiting by the gate and-“

“And what? Do you know how many home break- ins there have been?”

She began to scold me and I went on arguing.

Cat Eyes

“Ohhh! he is coming our way.” My friend grabbed my hand and barked into my ears.

“Who?!” I asked loudly

“That fair dude with those cat eyes. Why is Shaan getting him here?” She tried to tug my hand and pull me away.

As the lights swung around the dance floor and people danced to trance music I watched the two guys make their way towards us. One of them was the subject of a serious crush by my friend.

“Let’s go Dee!!” She began to drag me.

I grinned and slowed my pace and let the guys catch up.

“Hi Shaan” I gave him a happy smile.

He blinked. I could hear him think- Why is she being so nice to me?

I generally stayed aloof with my friend’s crowd. I wasn’t really a discotheque goer but getting to know my friend’s crush was interesting.

“This is Asif.” He introduced cat eyes to the two of us. My friend’s face fell. He was a Muslim.

“And get this – he is from Afghanistan.” My ears perked up. From Afghanistan?

Asif shrugged and looked around at the people gyrating on the floor.

“We can’t talk here. Let’s go to the coffee shop.” I smiled. He too had noticed my friend noticing him.

Shan grinned and knew he was putting my friend in a spot.

“Sure! Let’s go to the coffee shop.”

We walked out of the discotheque and up into the 5 star hotel to the coffee shop.

The music changed and we got to hear the soothing tones of Kenny G playing his sonorous tunes.

We were led to a table that overlooked the pool. My friend sat next to me and clutched my hand. Her palm was clammy.

The guys ordered coffee for four. I was miffed.

“We could have wanted something else.”

“Yes Shaan, that was very sexist of you.” My friend finally showed her fiery side.

Shaan had been her chaddi buddy since school days. She bullied the man who silently loved her since first grade. He always indulged her.

He flung his hands up and said “Look we two can only afford coffee.”

I raised an eyebrow and remarked “We’ll ask for separate checks. Cool with you guys?”

Asif smiled “Where I come from ladies don’t pay.”

“Really Asif?” My friend asked and I pinched her knuckle for asking a stupid question.

His face became somber

“You girls don’t know what you take for granted here. Our women have lost what little sense of freedom they had. It’s a tough life there.”

“When did you come here to India Asif?” Shaan asked as he sipped his coffee.
He was no longer tipsy and that was a good sign since he had to drop us back home.

“Few months back. We didn’t have much choice. It was either grow a beard and follow their mazhaab or die. We left and this is home.”

“Why didn’t you go to Pakistan?” Shaan asked and my friend glared at him

Asif caught the look while he sipped his coffee

“No; it’s okay. It’s a valid question. I am studying at Delhi School Of Economics. It’s my first year.”

My friend’s face fell. Muslim and four years younger. I tried to control my smile at her quelling heart.

“So, wouldn’t you like to go back?” I asked

He nodded “With all its problems it is my home and I love it but they will kill me there.”

“Why?” I asked

“I am worse than an infidel. I am a disbeliever. I drink wine, I smoke, I date and I let my sister enjoy the same freedom. They’d shoot me at sight.”

His green eyes seemed to become like liquid sea of sadness and we all became quiet.

“Does that mean you will never get to go home?” Shaan asked as he made a gesture for the check to the Steward.

He shook his head “Not in the near future. We may move to London later on. We have family there. My parents like it here though. Summers they go to the mountains and winters they stay in Delhi. My sister and I have made friends. Life is good here.”

The check came and we girls grabbed it.

“We’ll pay.” We were adamant.

Shaan laughed and flung his hands up

“Fine! That much money stays in our pockets. We are poor people. We can’t afford to dine you people all the time.”

“When have we asked you for a treat? You are so ungrateful.” My friend stuck her tongue out at him.

Asif laughed and his cat eyes gleamed.

My friend and I gaped; enthralled by the handsome Pathan before us.
Shaan shook his head and sighed.

Waiting for the Train

I folded my arms and stared straight ahead at the dirty tracks. Naked towheads behind me ran screaming with joy; oblivious to the cares of the world. I ignored them just as I ignored their parents who went about their business around their hot shanties.

The smell of urine and defecation smothered my senses. I wanted to retch and struggled to look for a handkerchief in my shoulder knapsack.

“God! Don’t these people have any shame?” I muttered and stepped aside as a little tot yanked her pajama down and began to poop next to me.

“It isn’t their fault you know. The latrine there is full and the corporation doesn’t clean the mobile latrines.”

A Sardarji, barely five feet tall, spoke to me. I smiled at him and tried to act reserve.

“The train is taking very long today.” He spoke up again. He wanted conversation and I wanted silence.

I sighed. There was never an excuse for rudeness. He wasn’t a salesman I could look through. He was just some lonely uncleji wanting a word or two.

“I will miss my first two classes but taking the train to the campus is better than boarding Red Liners.” I responded.

The smell of fresh poop left by the little girl made us move a few yards further towards the ticket booth and away from the shanties.

“I’ve been taking this train since before you were born. “ His eyes twinkled and his bearded jaw wobbled.

“In fact my house was one of the first to be built in this locality. That time we had horses riding in from the Cantonment.”

“Well, our home was also one of the first ones to be built here.” I told him proudly. “It’s a nice place to live in; quite peaceful.”

He gave a dry smile.

“Yes, the locality is nice here but not the slums surrounding it.”

I shifted my bag. My shoulder began to hurt under its heavy load.

“Why do you say that?” I asked and wished the train would hurry up. He was a nice old guy but I could feel the wave of irritation surrounding my mind and drowning me in a filthy temper.

“During the 84 riots men from the surrounding slum area burned my house down.”

I stared at him in shock. The irritation in my mind ebbed way as if a plug had been pulled.

“My son was in the house. He died. I had gone to meet our neighbors and they didn’t let me out. I went mad trying to get out but they held me back. I couldn’t save my son.”

Tears rolled down his eyes and I averted mine. What was I to say? I remembered the circle of fire I watched from the roof of my house. I watched the Gurduwara flag waver and fall; I watched homes being set on fire.

The perfect circle my nine year old mind had thought.

It was clear memory. But what was I to say to him?

“I lost everything in that fire. From the window I recognized one of the thugs.

He worked in the electrical shop next to mine. And he still works in our locality.

He was never brought to justice.”

He gave me a wan smile.

“But people are nice here. A builder bought my land. I live on the ground floor and the other two floors have nice young families. The neighbors are nice, they look in on me but it’s not the same.”

We heard the train whistle and the chugging of the wheels. Army soldiers hung out of the door-less boogies. Pristine clean in their camouflage uniforms they looked fresh and happy.

Office goers crowded around the halting train and in the melee of people I lost sight of the slight sadarji.

I let myself be pushed inside the train and bumped against a Jawan who quickly stepped aside.

Grabbing the handle bar I stood and blindly stared out of the boogey at the naked kids as they waved the train goodbye. I never saw the Sardarji again.

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