Last Call

“Get fucked,” the bartender said in an even monotone.

I turned 90 in a fluid motion and continued telling my story to whoever was sitting there now.

“It’s not like I’m inventive or anything,” I said reasonably. “I know I’m not. I don’t got what it takes to const- constric- create narratives. It’s just that I can read beginnings and predict endings.”

What do you mean, I waited for the man with the mousy blonde hair to ask; but he continued to stare miserably into his glass. 

"I had to give up on Agatha Christie when I was ten," I confided. "It was a total buzzkill. The basic sort of crap people can't get. And don't even get me started on serialized novels."

The mousy-haired man's lady friend finally came back from the restroom. I could tell by the way she put her hand on his shoulder that they'd end up marrying each other in a couple of months. I also knew that it would be a desperately unhappy marriage - although he wouldn't realize that until just before her untimely death, seven years from now. He'd be convicted. I decided I had to warn him.

"Get away from her, good buddy," I warned him. "Shizz-shisss-she's-"

"Get fucked," the blonde man's lady friend suggested. She slammed a wad of notes on the bar and dragged him away in her wake.

"-not a keeper," I finished my sentence. Then I finished my drink.

"What exactly are we doing here?"

"See that man standing in the corner?"

"The one who is indescribably handsome and yet extrudes an air of silent melancholy?"

"No, to the right."

"The self-assured shark with the silver hair chatting up a sultry woman half his age?"

"No, you idiot. The one next to the pinball machine."

"What, that tall, slouchy man in the crumpled suit who's facing the wrong way?"

"Yeah, that one."

"What the hell is he doing?"

What the hell was I doing?

That was a good question. I had a lot of good questions.
Who introduces new cast members in the second episode instead of the season premiere?
Why insert your writerly persona into a novel when the narrator himself is already a thinly-veiled analogy of you?
When do you realize there is a hole in the lining of the inner pocket of your coat, out of which your little blue pill has fallen fifteen minutes ago, thus rendering your pursuit of the sultry woman half your age redundant?

And while we were at it, where were the Snowdens of yesteryear?
I realized I was on a roll.
I also realized I was slightly drunk.

What I was doing was this:
I was standing next to the pinball table, facing the wrong way. I would stand there until the next contestant came up, shoved a quarter in, and started his game. I would stand in the same position, not looking at the person or the table, listening to the sound effects and nursing a drink. As soon as the last ball fell through (which seldom took long - most people who stepped up to the pinball table at twelve fifteen on a weekday night were too drunk to tell the difference between the fruit machine and a urinal), I would finish whatever was left of my drink and announce their exact score without turning around. Then the loser would pay for the winner's next drink.

I hadn't lost even once. People assumed I was winning by listening to the sound effects and calculating. If they found out the scores were popping unbidden into my head there would probably be a riot.

"Nineteen thousand six hundred and eighty-four," I called out.
The man with the silver hair was led out by the sultry woman half his age.
My glass was magically refilled.


"Why not use your ability to fry some bigger fish?"

"Excuse me?" I looked up. I hadn't realized anyone was actually listening. I'd been ranting on about how I missed the simple joys - how it was hard even to laugh at newspaper comics, knowing that half of them would be cancelled midway through important arcs (in one memorable instance due to the cartoonist faking his death to move to Bucharest).

"I mean at some high stakes poker game or something. The races." It was the sultry woman who'd been led out by the dysfunctional man earlier tonight. Or was it some other night? "I mean, you could be rich!"

I grinned. It was about as funny as cancer.
"I don't actually see the exact endings of things, miss," my head was starting to swim but I tipped my glass at the bartender again. He rolled his eyes. "I just have a knack for guessing possible outcomes. Pinball games are the only exception. Even if I go down to a race and think really hard, all I'll get is a brainwave that says some horse will win." I stared moodily into my empty glass. "Even my disease has a sense of humour."

"Don't be ridiculous!" She laid a warm hand on my arm. I looked at it. Then I looked at her. She smiled. "Have you ever thought about why you have this gift?"

"It isn't really a gift," I said. "I don't even think it's all that special. The thing is, everything that begins at a fixed point already has its conclusion nestled away inside. Nothing ever changes. If you really want to know how something ends, you just have to read the beginning closely enough."

"Sure." She hadn't moved her hand.
She wasn't all that pretty - she'd dressed carelessly and the nightlong barhopping had taken its toll - but she had great eyes. I was a sucker for those eyes.
The smile didn't hurt, either.

"I'm going to die around twenty years from now," I said evenly. "It will be sudden and violent. I won't feel any pain. I will die solvent but not rich. Happy but not satisfied. And I will be alone. There is no greatness to hang around for."

"I don't really believe in worrying about the future," she lied. "Plus my place is nearby. Do you wanna continue our little conversation there?"

I nodded. Her smile widened. Her teeth were bright and her hair fell rather fetchingly over her ears. I adjusted for prettiness accordingly.

It was all a sham, of course - she'd been staking me out for over a week. She - and her employers, who I couldn't get a glimpse of yet - were very interested in my ability. I swirled around the last drink I'd be consuming at this particular bar, and then drained it in one gulp.

The thing was, I hadn't started my story a week ago, when she first bumped into me (accidentally, as she assured me then) on my way out. I had realized then how that particular story would go.
No, this was a story spanning the breadth of just one night.
Because I was getting tired and needed somewhere to begin.

I paid for my drink and followed her into the ending I'd been working towards.

Orpheus & Friends

Orpheus at Home

Orpheus takes off one sneaker and then the other. He tosses one northwards, across the room.

He tosses the other one southwards, across the room.

He trudges shamefacedly to the toilet to retrieve his second sneaker from inside the bowl.

Then Orpheus sits down on his bed and watches the fan revolve in a counterclockwise motion.

After a few minutes Orpheus types Hi on his phone and sends it to his ex.

After a few more minutes Orpheus types in Help I'm Slipping Again and sends it to his three or four best friends.

Orpheus is about to give up and go fix himself a sandwich when the phone vibrates upon his thigh.

The next half an hour is broken down into long intervals of tortured waiting followed by frantic text messages typed and sent in less than thirty seconds.

The first of his friends replies to his text after half an hour but by then Orpheus has already convinced his ex to let him call her.

The beginning of the text is read (Worst Idea Ever, Buttface) and peremptorily discarded.

His ex picks up the phone with the sole intention of setting the record straight but Orpheus cuts her off.

Listen, Orpheus says.

He strikes up the first chords to a mournful melody on his synthesizer.

It is self-composed, Orpheus offers by way of explanation.

Orpheus segues into the melody proper and clears his throat.

The universe cocks its ear in anticipation.

First Drunken Interlude

Worst idea ever, man

Oh, come on it's not like you've never acted on instinct yourself

Yeah, instinct of self-preservation maybe

You stay out of this you can't even keep track of your footwear

Worst idea ever, man

Come on, dude you could show some enthusiasm for once

Yaay our friend just committed ritual disempowerment on his lovelife

I think you mean disembowelment

Worst idea ever, man

Orpheus in High School

... The fifth and final event of the academic calendar was the Ad Lib competition, conducted in the first week of September (2/9/11). Four teams of four people each put together an advertisement in the given timespan.

The first prize was awarded to the Argon team, who performed a short skit promoting an energy drink. A protest was lodged by the other teams since only three members of Argon acted in the skit - the fourth member, Orpheus, remained on stage strumming a guitar and singing. The judges, however, lauded this as a 'groundbreaking display of innovation'. The Argon team was the only one to receive a standing ovation from the crowds - the noise of which was later blotted out by Orpheus hitting his crescendo.

The second and third places went to Krypton and Xenon, who presented advertisements for a shaving gel and omniscient pen, respectively...

Second Drunken Interlude

Just outta curiosity what song did you sing her

I am betting it was something gay

Began with an original melody followed by Nobody Home

Like something by the Backstreet Boys

Seriously, Floyd to a girl you're trying to get back

I wasn't trying to get her back I just wanted to sing it to her once

Before they tried to clean up their act with Never Gone I mean

But you did get her back

Yes yes as a matter of fact I did

Was it As Long As You Love Me

Does anybody here remember Vera Lynn

Orpheus in Happier Times

This just feels right, Orpheus says to his girl. Doesn't it feel just right?

Don't push your luck, she retorts.

They lapse back into silence. Orpheus takes her fingers in his hand and she lets him. Orpheus correctly interprets this to be a good sign.

You need to stay away from the tall grass, Orpheus cautions his girl.

Why?

Because there could be snakes? Orpheus wonders why he is compelled to lameness from time to time. He hurries a little to catch up.

The Hauz Khas monument is ethereal in the encroaching evening. Orpheus stares up at its mottled walls and jagged silhouette and feels a million strings vibrate inside him.

This is one of the few times when he feels completely at peace with himself.

Orpheus cannot find his girl anywhere. He follows her into the tall grass, peering into the dusk like a cormorant in pursuit of some eel.

He turns a corner and finally comes upon her sitting in the grass. She has taken her shoes off and is probably enjoying the sensation of coolness beneath her feet.

Orpheus sees her smile and comes forward, wanting to share the moment with her.

She sees him.

He sees the phone in her hand.

One minute, she mouths, and Orpheus nods. He waits in the grass for a while and then wanders off to lean against the mottled wall of the monument.

A pleasant scent of moisture emanates from the wall behind him.

Her clear, sonorous laugh fills his head with a phantom music that leaves him vaguely dissatisfied.

Orpheus puts on his earphones.

He begins to rummage through his playlist for the right song to play.

Final Drunken Interlude

So was it unconditional

What

Guys I'm hallucinating

Somebody shut him up

Your return or her return or whatever this is

As in

Guys seriously I'm seeing things here

We're trying to have a conversation dude shut up

As in did she lay down any conditions because it got ugly last time

Guys the frigging walls are on fire

Just the one dude get your hands off me

But the walls are on fire

What was it

I had to promise I'd never

Guys I don't wanna die here

Oh for fuck's sake shut up now tell me what

I'd never

Looking Back

Orpheus doesn't go all the way.

He promises himself he won't make his move until they reach his door. But halfway up the first flight he realizes the landlord's door is locked and his flatmate has left for Goa already.

Orpheus puts his hand on her waist and turns her around. She is surprised but receptive. They kiss as he half-walks, half-carries her up the next two flights.

This wasn't such a bad night after all, she breathes, and Orpheus grins although a jarring note has been hit. He had been under the impression that it wasn't a bad night to begin with.

They reach the front door. Orpheus has to try thrice before he manages to get the door open without letting go of her. Everything comes back in a rush and his fingers move along familiar paths, touching innocent squares of skin but still setting all synapses haywire. Her breathing becomes more laboured.

What happened, Orpheus asks as she breaks momentarily away. She snorts by way of explanation, her shoulders shrug beneath his palms, and in that one moment they are in perfect synchronicity with each other.

I mean what happened last month, Orpheus says. His own breaths are erratic now. His thoughts more and more diffused. She stiffens.

You promised, she says.

I did. But I think I have a right to know.

Orpheus can articulate again. He does not particularly enjoy the sensation.

I mean we are together now. Again. And it is only fair that we remain honest with each other. About everything.

Yes. She starts to disengage from him. Her bracelet catches on the zipper of his jacket.

Yes, she repeats. It is only fair. But it is the one thing I asked of you. The only thing I asked of you.

But I was just asking, Orpheus starts, aware the moment now lies shattered on the floor around them. He does not like the cleanness of his flat, the smoothness of its empty surfaces. He'd cleaned up the place specifically for this.

The only thing, she repeats. And you were doing so well.

The bracelet refuses to yield. She pulls. He gets a sudden vision of her walking out amidst a shower of beads.

But-

No, she says.

No, she says again. I am not doing this anymore.

She slips her hand through the bracelet, leaving it hanging on his jacket like some strange new sort of decoration.

Goodbye, she mouths. Or maybe it is a trick of the light.

Orpheus watches her trudge down the stairs. He knows he can follow her down or maybe shout entreaties at her receding back.

He also knows it would all be futile.

A few minutes later he finally notices the bracelet and cups a hand under it.

Christmas comes earlier each year, he says. The wisecrack does not help him feel any better.

Orpheus goes back inside.

He shuts the door behind him.

with regard to Jamie

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Dénouement

Then he pulled the trigger.

Then he closed his eyes.

Nitin swayed for a moment, dancing to some unheard music, far away from the grotesque tableau of which he was currently a part.

“It is too late for that now, Otto.” He took in a deep breath. “Can you feel it? In the air around you? It is all coming together. The strands are all resolving themselves.”

“It was an honest mistake! We were kids, don’t you get it? We were just kids!”

Otto was babbling faster and faster – his mind was finally coming to terms with what his heart had been screaming for the past five minutes, the past hour, the whole three weeks he’d known Nitin.

“I’ll-I’ll make it up to you! I’ll make it up to her!”

“I happen to be shooting pool with my cousin as we speak.”

“I think I will, Otto. You see, I’m not even here.

He looked back at the pickup but five steps seemed like a billion miles.

“You won’t get away with this!” A thin trail of spittle flew from the corner of Otto’s mouth.

“I know what you’ve done.” Nitin cocked the revolver. “All I am looking for is payback.”

“I’m not here for your confession. I know what you are.

“Get what?”

“You still don’t get it, do you, Otto?”

“Otto, Otto, Otto.” Nitin grinned in the darkness. “I love saying your name. It sounds the same forwards and back, did you know that?

“You can prove nothing,” Otto declared. “I wasn’t even here that night. I was shooting pool with my cousin. I’ve already testified once, and-”

“Her brother was a wastrel and a layabout, Otto. But he was around. Still is, in fact.”

“She wasn’t alone in the world, Otto. The papers said she was an orphan but they didn’t say anything about siblings.

“Where do you figure in all of this?”

“Nothing much. Except she destroyed the rest of her life that night.” Nitin scratched his chin with the barrel of the gun. “You know the details already, Otto. Need we waste our time?”

“And so what if she was?”

“Resisting your advances but too drunk to care too much.”

“I was telling you a story,” he continued. “Where was I? Ah, yes. Party spot. And this was where you first met her, didn't you? Dancing with her schoolmates. Young and hopeless.

Something chrome gleamed in his hand.

“Looking for this?” Nitin said.

He had already began searching in his pockets for the Magnum he always carried on him but it was nowhere to be found.

“I don’t see where you’re going with this,” Otto whispered.

“Five coyote maulings in eighteen months. But of course, that didn’t stop teenaged vagabonds from coming out here to party.”

“They moved the rest stop a couple miles down the road,” Nitin offered. “This one happened to be located too close to the woods to be safe.

They both knew who the she was.

“Who?” Otto swirled around to face the other man, but his voice belied the fact that the question was a redundant one.

“Neither did she,” Nitin quietly replied.

“I don’t like this place,” he said to Nitin.

Otto shuddered.

The Servo billboard in the background had faded almost completely to white, the lettering and the car barely visible, the eyes of the driver quite deliberately ripped open with a hunting knife that had a four-lettered name scratched upon its ratty scabbard.

The building looked like it hadn’t seen any visitors in decades.

“Yeah. This is it.” Nitin got out in front of the rest stop.

That was the important bit taken care of.

“Are you sure?” He looked doubtful, but he’d stopped the truck.

Otto stomped down on the brakes and the pickup cluttered to a halt.

“This is it,” Nitin said at length.

Otto grunted again, and after that they drove in silence for a while longer.

“I mean the dénouement. You know, the part where all the interweaving plotlines are resolved for the benefit of everyone keeping score at home.”

He fancied he could see the silhouettes of the household sitting down to dinner.

“No, not the ending, per se.” he stared at a dimly-lit farmhouse passing to their right.

“The ending?” Otto hazarded.

“The interpersonal dynamics are all very fine,” Nitin lumbered on, “And I get how it is an organic medium. But it sucks that the good parts are generally held back until the end.”

Intelligent discourse wasn’t exactly his forté.

Otto grunted but kept his eyes on the road.

“You know what I hate about theatre?” he asked suddenly.

Nitin looked at his watch again (9:24PM; hardly after hours) and wished for some divine intervention, some deus ex machina that would let him skip forward to the end of their journey.

Otto chuckled.

“I’m fine,” he finally responded through gritted teeth. “Mind if I stick my head outta the window?”

This just happened to be Otto’s idea of a joke.

They were both sitting in the front, like they had been for the whole four hour duration of the ride.

“All right back there?” Otto asked for the fifth time, and Nitin fought off a wild urge to rip his throat out.

His hands trembled slightly in his lap, but that was about it.

To give him due credit he kept his composure.

He was too old for that, for one; and the guy behind the wheel was too damn large to be ignored anyway.

He could hardly pretend he was alone in the car, could he?

Nitin stared out of the window for a bit but then it got old.

They drove in silence for a while.

Hungry Hearts

Read a short story by one Franz Kafka a few minutes back (read quite a few, actually, but I'm afraid some of his more urbane nuances tend to get a bit lost in translation). And just when I was about to give up ol' Franny as One-of-Those-Guys-I-Ain't-Gonna-Understand, along comes this one story that literally blows me away.

The story in question was called A Hunger Artist. It was the third or fourth story I flipped to, on account of Indrajit Hazra making a passing reference to it in his column way back when our babe Ramdev was fasting and everyone had an opinion on him, one way or the other. The reference was fleeting and ironical; the story was laden with irony too, only it was as fleeting as a freight train to the back of one's head.

Anyway, lengthy intro paras aside: the story is about a professional hunger artist, a man who ekes out his existence by living in an iron cage and not eating anything for stretches lasting forty days on end (not because of any limits to his endurance-the public simply loses interest after that).

The hunger artist fasts because of some nagging dissatisfaction he has with his life; he wants to fast for longer and longer periods but is hindered by a lack of commercial viability. Eventually, however, the public loses interest; and the hunger artist loses his impresario and his ragtag entourage of suspicious souls. He ends up as a circus sideshow; and finally released by the constant scrutiny and unhealthy interest of his spectators, he manages to fast out to his heart's content (or to the end of his life, although the two are implied to be one and the same).

Finally, as the circus overseer looks to clear out his straw-studded deathbed to make space for a panther, the hunger artist finally reveals the reason why he fasts:

It turns out he never really got the food he wanted.

These turn out to be his last words.

And after an unceremonious burial and a quick once-over, the cage is refilled and life goes on.

There can, of course, be multiple ways of interpreting this tale; however, going with the conclusions I drew, I think the hunger artist represents every creator who ever longed for recognition... Or even a chance to practice his art, or say whatever he wanted to say. We all go through our lives with a nagging sense of unease, a slight crinkle of unfulfilled desire at the corner of our eyes.

The hunger artist wastes away in his anticipation.

We merely die a little every day.

Why do we lead such unsatisfying lives? Why do we fast for longer and longer periods, when it is not food but nourishment that we actually need? There's a million references I could throw at you right now-Taare Zameen Par and some brash lovesong by the INXS and every frigging Rocky movie ever made-but I don't really need to do that, do I?

You already know what I'm talking about.

You've known all along, in fact. This is why we root for the underdog. And it is also the reason behind the populace's disinterest and suspicion when it comes to the hunger artist-because the mirror he holds up to their faces is so woefully accurate. They can all see a little bit of themselves in the artist; and at the same time they are unable to provide him the food he needs above all others.

Since you've read this far, let us try an experiment.

I'll assume I hold your unadulterated, undivided attention.

And you can assume I keep soliloquizing on the magic of Kafka (although I really think I need to go read the rest of that collection - I might miss a lot of the finer points, but ol' Frannypack is equally comfortable swapping his fine chisel for a sledgehammer).

There. We just freed up fifteen minutes (or fourteen, if you're still reading). Take these fourteen minutes, and put 'em where they'll give you the maximum amount of joy... Go listen to those songs you heard when you were young(er) and carefree. Read the first two pages of that paperback you were saving up for a rainy day.

Or if your activity of choice will take more than that to accomplish, write it down somewhere. That way, the next time you're about to blow two hours watching No Entry again on television, you can get off the couch and go painting instead. Or any of the wonderful things that give you peace.

Now. Go.

It might not make much of a difference... But it is a really small slice of your life, ain't it?

And this happens to be the only one you've got.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go draw up a bucket list for July 10 to July 16th... We'll talk about it in detail some other time.