Prize catch yet...

A wasted investment - something that could not wilfully fulfil its soulful purpose.

For want of a television?

As an Indian I do have my share of complaints. Of everything that has been happening on the cricket field in the last 24 hours. We have known cricket is known to be a gentleman’s game and the way we hit just 11 boundaries and no over boundaries shows how genteel we had been to the Kokkaburra game. And cricket romanticism has handed Michael Holding one of the finest repertoire for his comment against minnows before the start of the world cup.

But, this is not about all that. It is about some emotions and sentiments felt at a distant Mumbai suburb very far away from the Queens Park. March 17th started with notes of great optimism for me. I woke up with a cherubic thought of purchasing a new TV set. And I had planned them all. Everything would be installed and would be in place (along with snacking goodies and paraphernalia) before the clock struck 7 in the evening and the celebrations would go on till the wee hours of the morning. But my princely fascinations and the fact that my budgets do not necessarily go hand in hand with my choices brought me quickly back to the ground (the smallest LCD TV set costs around Rs. 25,000… I mean how do they think I will eat for the rest of the month?).

And when by 6 in the evening I felt that things have not been going my way, I settled for the safe havens of the internet. But, the turn of the match and fervor of the Bangladeshi bowlers had doused my enthusiasm within the first hour. But then again, India seemed to chisel out a resurrection with a slambanging Yuvraj and an uncharacteristically restrained and painstakingly patient Ganguly. So, I wanted to give them another chance and headed out into the neighborhood.

Soon I hit upon a small consumer electronics shop. And there was a motley collection of people watching the match intently on the television screen on display. To understand the conversations and the analysis that went about in the group, you would need to realize the demographics of Mumbai pretty well. The metropolis has a huge share of immigrants from Padmapar. And it has not remained unnoticed by the state government especially after the row of “duplex” apartments that are on exhibition in front of the dockyard at Mumbai. Commuters and posh office goers have long complained these habitat formats but the numbers have only multiplied for the last few years.

The diversity of the emotions could well be understood in the group as emotions flowed mixed with pride, dignity and restraint. Had this been anywhere you could well have seen joyous scenes, but with fear from the local administration and the fact that this was a foreign land, the land who is really the opposition on the cricketing field required a cautious approach. But you could really sense the pride and the sense of immense satisfactions as dot balls after dot balls went on. India had been stifled and rough handed to a corner.

In spite of this we stand on the 102nd anniversary of the division of the undivided Bengal. And despite the vagaries of religion, linguistic associations do create a soulful attachment. And so even though TV preludes had shown scenes of “Dada, we love you but not today!” from zealous Ganguly fans, the “mairya felum, kaitya felum” commenters in front of the TV with their trepid speechlessness could manage, “Sourav er century chai, are Bangladesh er jeet.” (Sourav should get a well deserved century, and Bangladesh a victory).

And although their eyes were firmly glued to the TV sets, the earpieces smugly camouflaged were multiplying the pleasures within. “Pakistan ke Ireland kahil koira disse, 73 for 6.” (Ireland have taken Pakistan to the cleaners, 73 for 6) and you could feel the palpable mocktail of pride, satisfaction, vengeance and immense pleasure.

Amidst the funeral of Indian cricket, you could not just but spare a thought for the lure of lucre that had brought many of them, with a threat to existence and to simple longings in life, but marooned deep within a distant land, which also happened to be a minefield of a mercurial opposition, emotions still ran deep. Attachments by language, by nationality, by religion and an immense desire to set those things right which have been wronged in the pages of history starting right from 1905 (the severance of undivided Bengal) to 1971 (need not explain why) to 2007 (the ceremonious Chappell-Ganguly spat).

A television set not purchased offset by an experience worthily gained.

All in a Day's Work

Rustom and Shweta were a happy couple. And though they did not have a nationality, both were in love with colors and they had another matching choice – of movies. They just loved the Brad Pitt starring Mr. and Mrs. Smith. That choice was not as much personal as it was professional. Because they were top cops themselves.

As Rustom sat in the dais decked in his new fur coat and sipping his stew, he heard Soham showering words of praise about him. His entire team stood cheering enthusiastically as Soham regaled the story of last evening. Soham was an Assistant Commissioner designate and both Rustom and Shweta worked with him. But Rustom was alone today. Bandaged round his neck, he could only shed a tear as he tried to dowse the burning thoughts of yesterday.

Yesterday was not a different day, a usual day at work. They had their regular bowl of cereals for breakfast. And Rustom was in an enigmatic mood. He usually loved his job as did Shweta but as he went about his daily chores and ablutions he lamented vociferously about his designation and remunerations. “Come to think about it Shweta,” he said, “we have been risking lives for almost 12 years now and in the next 3 – 4 years we might be retiring. But do you think we have saved enough for our post retirement days?” Shweta in her consoling yet luscious voice would say, “Come on Russy, Soham and the others would take care of us. Not to worry.” But the worry could never cease to exist. It had been plaguing Rustom for quite sometime now. And the conversation raged on, when the voice of Soham rang out, “Come out, lovebirds. Time to go to office.” And they jumped into the back of the Gypsy.

As they made their way through the winding streets of Mumbai, Soham would caress Shweta and Rustom fumed all the more. Shweta loved the attention she got and smiled naughtily at him and so would Soham. But there was no love lost between them; it could not be, ever.

They reached the Police Control Room, and there was frenetic activity all around. “What’s wrong?” Soham roared out. Havaldar Borekar came out of the phone, “Sir, there is confirmed reports of a bomb planted at the air traffic control tower of the international airport. We have already started vacating the airport and have arranged special security backup” “How did they get there? Why haven’t I been informed?” asked a visibly irritated Soham. “Sir, you were unreachable, but we have informed the squad already. They are already on their way. You better get going.” “Come on guys,” said Soham as he sprinted towards the Gypsy. Rustom and Shweta had already gone past him and taken their positions, perfectly alert. All complaints was forgotten by then.

When they reached the emergency exit of the international airport, there were already some members of the media loitering around. Soham muttered under his breath and then turned to Rustom and Shweta, “You guys take your positions.” He wore his jacket and mask, armed his revolver and made his way up the elevator. Rustom wished Shweta luck and brushed his cheek against hers and they smiled at each other and stormed at the targets. Rustom charged up the fire escape and Shweta up the main staircase.

Rustom peeped through the skylit windows at the positions. Govind was behind the 2 o clock. Rahul, was in the perfect sniper mode. Shweta and Soham was at Ground Zero Position. Rustom started his regular reconnaissance. He did not have to look much for the usual suspect position. The bomb was a timed instrument beeping quietly. He understood this could not be the regular explosive and was just a backup. The assailants would not leave this at such an obvious coordinate. Slowly and surely he moved towards it and looked down. Just perpendicularly he could see Datta, the master diffuser. He clawed at a small pebble and assiduously dropped it without making any sound. It landed perfectly on Datta’s helmet and he looked up and saw Rustom. He smiled at him and sprinted up the fire escape. He reached and expertly tugged at a couple of red and yellow wires and the beeps were gone. He muttered instructions on his handheld device and patted Rustom appreciatively.

Rustom made his way to the skylit and peeped in again. There was Shweta on the other side with a worried look on the other side. And just as she saw him, she sighed into a smile. She nodded at him. And looked at the floor on the other side. Soham and Govind were busy on the instrument on the other side. Their job was almost done.

And then suddenly, the five cloaked figure had their rifles at Soham and Govind’s neck. One of them, the leader, seemed to be barking instructions to them. Shweta padded her way to the other side. She was just above the assailants. Soham and Govind stood up with their hands up. Rahul was trying to take aim but they were too close to Soham and Govind for comfort. Rustom ran up to Datta and tagged him along to the other window of the skylit. When they reached, they could find themselves stationed just on top of the assailants. Datta took out his sub machine gun and looked at Rustom. He was ready and in one deft motion, Datta broke the skylit and both of them plunged in amidst the splintering glasses.

The assailants were caught quite by surprise and in the confusion Rahul shot one of them right in the middle of the eyes. Soham lunged his boots into the rib cage of the second and he flew to a corner. Datta had another in the gnaws of a pythonic strangle and Govind got back at the explosive. The leader had been hit by Govind and before he could take guard Rustom was breathing at his neck. The last guy had fallen off at a distance and was aghast at the sudden turn of events. Shweta sensed something not going right here. She plunged in from the floor above but by that time the guy opened fire at Rustom. Shweta dived in towards Rustom and took the bullets right on her neck as she was air borne. The last bullet brushed against Rustom’s right limb and he could just feel a stinging pain. Before Shweta thudded lifelessly at the floor, Rahul shot the ruffian. Rustom plunged his long right claw into the leader’s Adam’s Apple and limped hurriedly towards Shweta. Soham screamed and came to her and took her head in her lap. Datta took out his sipper water bottle and poured in some drops on to her lolling tongue. Shweta drank thirstily as much as she could and extended her left paw towards Rustom and smiled naughtily at her. Rustom was helpless. How could he take her pain. He looked at Soham and then at her. “Soham, you assistant commissioner, help her… Please!” he barked. “Don’t leave me alone Shweta.. Please!” he whimpered. And by the time Rahul could run towards them, she was gone. Within seconds, it was all over.

The next day was Holi. The entire police brigade was in a riot of colors and after the somber cremation of Shweta, the entire battalion had gathered to pay homage to the royal indomitability that both Rustom and Shweta had exhibited in their illustrious career and especially yesterday. After the boisterous round of applause, praise and petting, Rustom with his new fur jacket and bandaged limb limped to pay his respect at the crematorium grounds. He shed two drops of tears on the gold plated tomb stone that read, “Shweta (1992 – 2007), Sniffer Dog and Combat Specialist, Bomb Defusing Squad, Maharashtra Police, Mumbai.”

Rustom with his right paw, wiped the dry leaves from over the plaque.