The Parrot

Esme had disappeared . That was for certain . Miss Pickelby’s frequent wails of anguish and bewildered bereavement , all bore testimony to the loss of a near somebody , and her clamorous lamentations about the feline pet form provided as much allusion as to the subject that might have gone amiss . Dobbis might have felt within himself an inclination to confine himself to the cozy comfort of his bed , but he had always found miss Pickelby’s apple pies to be particularly agreeable , and a woman capable of conjuring up miracles in the kitchen, as to be pleasantly satisfying to a man’s palette , demanded more attention from her immediate neighbours , if not more respect .

Miss Pickelby broke the news to Dobbis, as he tiresomely dragged himself into her apartment .
‘Esme has disappeared ‘ she cried .

‘Do you mean that its dead , or conjured up some form of Houdini miracle , or just left’ ,asked Dobbis lazily . Miss Pickelby was a widower , nearing her forties , and had earned herself the dubious reputation of being the most wonderfully forgetful and remarkably absentminded woman in the whole of the country . She had , once , been married , as all women usually are , by social stipulation , in her twenties , to a husband , who , in an act of extreme forgetfulness , had lost his gun, and then his life . She , of course had no children , and had taken to the care of her pet cat with the desperate affection of deprived motherhood.

‘Like every night , I had put him beside the fire, after he had finished his supper , for it was rather cold yesterday , and had gone to bed rather early ‘

‘ Curious thing how an early retirement to bed always makes you end up losing living life forms ‘, quipped Dobbis , who found it difficult to comprehend what possible pleasure a person might obtain by going to bed early , in a world so full of possibilities .

‘And that was the last I saw of him ‘ , continued Miss Pickelby in a shriller tone . ‘When I woke up today in the morning , Esme was not there by the fire place , so I thought he might be in the lawn , but he was nowhere to be found ‘.

‘Going by the length of its absence , Esme can be some two miles off , or may be dead ‘ ,quipped Dobbis , with the callous indifference of one , on whom the possible consequences of Esme’s passing away on the culinary skills of Miss Pickelby weighed more heavily.

‘But why and how ‘ , asked a distracted and visibly distraught miss Pickelby .

‘Well of course , I cannot speak too intelligently about the travel habits of disillusioned cats . Maybe , the oppressive affection of misdirected motherhood has forced it to migrate in search of households ,whose primary solicitation in life may remain in something more worthwhile . Or maybe , it has gladly become the morning breakfast of some rather hungry stray dog. There’s no telling to what ends ones quest for freedom might lead one to .

‘It certainly is not dead ‘,said Mrs. Pickelby, but a note of horror had crept into her voice.

‘But we ought to have found it’s remains , or atleast a carcass ‘.

‘Not if the stray dogs were particularly hungry and not merely toying with their food . Not very often do they get to enjoy a whole healthy furry cat for breakfast . You really must make that concession .’
Mrs. Pickelby turned away hastily to seek comfort and counsel in some other direction. With the selfish absorption of young motherhood she entirely disregarded Dobbis’s concern for the dire conditions of stray street dogs. And her search for an ear found an welcome audience in the form of Miss Mukherjee , who had alighted at the doorsteps of the distraught household , probably to garner enough information for her daily gossip . Miss Mukherjee was by far , the most tactless woman in the whole of the city , and had travelled far , in search of faith , and had lost both her mind and tongue , in the process . Now , on the present occasion of personal bereavement , she was disposed to give tongue to the heartfelt sympathies she had for the bereaved , as Miss Pickelby broke to her , the news of her pets sudden and ill-advised disappearance , with the same merciless faculty which finds as much joy in the ninetieth time of telling as in the first.

‘He must be around here somewhere , could not possibly have gone far .You , of course , need to keep faith in Lord , and believe that Esme’s sudden disappearance is merely a test of your faith ,’ suggested Miss Mukherjee , with the authority of one who was well acquainted with the whimsicalities of the aforementioned Lord .

‘But if he's been eaten in the meantime by effectively larger canines and partly digested," said Dobbis, who clung affectionately to his stray Dog theory, "surely some ill-effects would be noticeable?"

Miss Mukherjee was rather staggered by this complication of the question. However , armed with all good faith ,and her absolute lack of tact, she suggested that the church backyard might provide an appropriate site to begin their search . Of all the things that one could possibly do on a Sunday morning , Visiting the Church backyard suggested itself as being a particularly mundane thing to do , particularly in light of the looming reality of Esme’s disappearance , but the Lord acts in mysterious ways , and there was no disputing Miss Mukherjee’s good faith , if not her intentions . So , reignited with the hope of restoration of her lost pet , along with the lure of Nirvana , that the instrument of faith promised to land in her lap , Miss Pickelby headed for the churchyard . However , their recent quest was cut short by the sobbing wails of Miss Mukherjee’s maid , which , there was no mistaking , by sheer virtue of its lungpower .

As the three rushed into Miss Mukherjee’s apartment , they were greeted to the sight of a carcass of Miss Mukherjee’s pet parrot , which lay on the ground , lifeless , and subject to fervent tongue-licking from Miss Pickelby’s missing pet .

The Painting that Grew

‘I am so tired of the art-jargon of people who are so fond of talking of certain pictures growing on us’,exclaimed Kubisha sheepishly ,with the disposition of a man who was so miffed with his own stunted growth that he begrudged some boring lifeless art-papers a right he had been so deprived of.In his teens,Kubisha had been a man of pleasant disposition,but with his growing age,and static growth,the worlds unreasonable injustice and harsh unkindness had given him reason enough,or so he felt,to be pugnacious.

Dobbis had been listening for long to Kubisha’s endless tirade against his despicable neighbour,who,in the age of his life that should have been dedicated to a peaceful passing away,had not only developed a distasteful love of art,but even had the insolence to lecture Kubisha on it.Presently,he felt within himself an urge to speak and enlighten Kubisha with his own worldly knowledge,and he disposed of this growing urge with the words,’that would seem preposterous,if not a somewhat frightening as well’,and paused a while,probably to marvel at the wit of his just made statement,and possibly,in wait for appreciation from his listener.Dobbis had recently acquired amongst his fellow creatures,a fame for being witty,due to his recent exploits in bringing to the notice of the local municipality,the lack of ‘ proper ambiance in public toilets for the peaceful exudation of excreta’,as he had cleverly put it,and partly,for the joke his sister had recently made at the House Of Commons,of which she,being the commonest of individuals,was a member,a joke which had made it to the front pages of many news dailies.However,on scrutinizing and realizing that his just made statement had not had its desired effect on the listener,he proceeded to add

‘but some pieces of art really do grow with time,if not exactly in artistic sense,but certainly in monetary terms’.

‘Do they?Then,i think,in their present state of unaberrated growth,its worldly unwise of people to still invest in the stock market.’

Dobbis ignored this present snub from his listener and said,’I know of an event in which the an art-piece’s growing value was a considerable cause of anguish to one of my distant cousins’,and without waiting for another snobbish reply from his hostile host,proceeded into the details of this just mentioned event.

‘Old Patrick,for so he had being nicknamed,probably owing to the fact the peoples earliest memories of him were of being old,had earned a reputation for being a hard money lender.He had earned an entire life’s living through lending money hard,and had earned it well.One might even say that he was rich,judging from the monstrously huge mansion he had built himself.So,when Old Patrick died,it was not much of a surprise that nobody really mourned his sensible passing away.They might have even attended the funeral with the air of mirth that one usually associates with public revelry or fall of a dictatorship,but the norms required that the attenders wear on their face a look of perennial grim,and all of them being devoutly religious,conformed to the rules of a normal funeral march.Even his son,Junior Patrick,for he had so come to be called, having lived long in the shadow of his maliciously infamous senior,might have felt within himself an impulse to rejoice the occasion,being finally relieved of the ‘rule of the cane’ as the neighbours put it,but for the huge fortune his father had apparently left him.Money,afterall,has the ability of overcoming barriers even love cannot.

But after a few days he realised that his financial condition was not as rosy as he had earlier imagined it to be,for his father had lent a man,some Mr Mccaby,a sum of money sufficiently large to result in a crease on juniors forehead and be the cause of sufficient anguish to him.This sum of money,which the now dead Old Patrick had lent to this man was to be repaid on the day Junior’s father had so intelligently dedicated to the passing away of the worldly embodiment of his soul.So now Junior,after much procrastination,for he was in mortal fear of his debtor turning upon him,and after having whipped his father a sufficient number of times in his mind to have attained a satisfactory revenge to the ‘rule of the cane’,summoned up enough courage,partly on reminding himself of his malicious ancestral blood,to face him,and with the disposition of a man having come unto his own right,set out quickly for the house of Mr Mccaby.However,even with all haste that he could summon into his journey,he was a little late,for his debtor had followed Old Patricks example,probably with the noble intention of paying him in person.

Now,Junior,given the present depreciation of his recently inherited fortune,was forced to rent out a room in his mansion to occasional travellers.But his newly conceived business did not receive much response,partly due to the infamy he had inherited,until one day,a middle-aged man of about forty,sporting a classic Ford car,probably as a demonstration of his wealth,landed at his doorsteps.Since the minimum rent period was a month,and Junior,having partly inherited his business acumen from his father played hardball,the stranger offered to pay for the whole thirty days.Whether this was out of desperation,generosity or a blatant display of his wealth,Junior could not tell,but was only to happy to pocket the money with the disposition of a man on whom the service to his guest weighed more heavily than some inconsequential crisp bank notes.Junior’s sagging financial fortunes received a further lift when the traveller offered to buy one of the paintings that adorned,or according to Junior,tainted,one of the walls of the guest room,for a worth of about ten thousand pounds.

And so,after two days of enriching junior,the traveller,carrying his suitcase in one hand,and his new prized possession in the other,boarded the Ford car and set off,leaving an amused Junior to chuckle at the foolishness and naivety of having bought such a worthless piece of art.

The turn of events came a week later.Revelry had still been junior’s prime mood,when he was awakened to the realms of reality by a sudden knock on his door.On opening the door to receive his new guest,he was treated to the sight of a bag which belonged to the Ministry of Arts,as a tag on it demonstrated,and behind it,the bags rightful owner,who,clearly not satisfied with this earlier mentioned demonstration,bore on each of his two pockets,metal tags proudly displaying the hierarchy of his post.Junior might have allowed his mind the discretion of imagining the man as a walking sign-board,but the mans wealthy bearings unwarranted the liberty of such a thought,for a man wealthy enough to be respectable is allowed the liberty of walking through his sins in life with the aura of self-righteousness.Presently this Ministry of Arts went on to introduce itself as,not at all the Ministry of Arts,but rather a very unassuming Mr Hammond.On confirming that he was indeed addressing the rightful heir of the late Old Patrick,he went on to brief Junior as to the real cause of his untimely visit.Apparently,the old man,in his age,had acquired the costly habit of patronising arts,and had bought a painting of one Pablo Picasso for a worth of some hundred thousand pounds,half of which remained to be paid.’

Dim Wits And Dumb Quotes

I have never really understood the deal with English . Of course , it is a very British language , and as the new version of M S Word would vouch , even more American . But then , every language has its origin, it always takes a monkey to make a chatter , though I would much prefer them silent , and a lot less irritating , its nothing to be unduly proud of . Just because the English managed to land up on the shore of some dozen nations , uninvited and unannounced , and seasick , doesn’t give them the right to proclaim their language as being something ‘magically enchanting and enigmatic , and so majestically superior to any tongue ever spoken ‘. There's nothing more special about English than Zulu , or the hundred thousand native languages spoken all around the world . If you have your word’s worth , I have my word’s worth. What makes you assume I don’t ? In fact , the language is littered with such inanely stupid dialogues and monologues , that they almost incite us to be perfectly horrid and mean to them . Take these for example :

1. Et Tu Brute : Now , you don’t go through an entire play , speaking fluent Shakespearean English ( or was it Victorian ),taken right out of the Oxford dictionary , and just when you reach the climax ,the part every one had been waiting for, for all they ever wanted to see was irascible narcissists like you get murdered , you blabber out some ‘Latin mumbo jumbo’ , leaving the audience confused as to what really is happening , and where the second Brutus possibly arrived from . Sure as hell, there was one on stage , but there was no doubting Caeser’s superior knowledge as to the number of Brutuses actually present .It is , after all ,your play , your murder , and certainly, you have the final say in how many Brutuses you want to be murdered by .

And what’s with the meek apologetic tone . You were set to become the ruler of the Roman empire , and you have just been betrayed by your closest friend , and then murdered , and the audience expect something fiery from you, full of angst and fury , like ‘Vengeance shall be mine ‘ or ‘see you in hell ‘ , and all that you can manage is a sorry little ‘you too Brutus’ ! Have a sense of occasion, will you .Its as if you were more intent on counting your murderers
‘ok , so there’s you , Cassius , and you, Casca, wasn’t really expecting you, and you too , Brutus ‘.

2. To be or not to be : The mother of all letdowns .The stage was set, people had been murdered , and as was the norm those days , had duly transformed into blabbering ghosts . And of-course , like all ghosts who had died of poison poured down their ears , they wanted retribution , and , and had started popping up in the

dreams of our Prince Charming , dressed as his father ,revealing a diabolically strange and damnable, tangled web of intrigue so fiendish, so infernal, so heinous and so utterly confusing that it coerced our young prince, against all his common sense ,and its lack, there of , to believe that it , in reality , was his uncle who was guilty of his Father’s murder .Now , what more evidence do you want ,videotapes, and your uncles candid confession on a camera. There was a whole bleeding ghost , and there was your uncle , on his knees , praying to God , all testimony of his sin . Sure , innocent men don’t pray . Now it was time for action, time for you to walk in there , grab him by the head , and avenge your father’s death ,and maybe , just to entertain the audience, spice up the act by throwing in a dialogue or two. Something like ‘ Even with the blood that flowed from thee , Father, thou art avenged ‘, or maybe , if you want it to be a little less dramatic, and more American, something like ‘ die, bastard , die ‘.

But you decided the moment was not right , the signals were not appropriate . What signals did you possibly want ? Did you expect your uncle to hold aloft a ‘kill me coward’ placard over his head , r throw a grand party in celebration of your father’s death ? Rather , you decided that this would be more of an appropriate time to start philosophizing . And then you deliver the mother of all monologues , ‘to be or not to be’ (sure , there was a whole lot more gibberish before it, and a whole lot more that followed , but this really was the crux ) , and some how , this was supposed to be a question . Well , may be , you were too busy procrastinating the day they taught ‘how to frame a question ‘ in school. Well , lets take a look at some well framed questions , so that you may learn by example .

A . Is Hamlet the ultimate authority on Father issues? Discuss.

B. Have you noticed that in Shakespeare's plays, when a character claims to have seen a ghost,

he usually has? Were people more reliable in these days? Were ghosts?

C . Compare and contrast the character of Hamlet to common-day emo kids.

D. Would this play have been better if Hamlet and Ophelia had slept together?

E . Did Hamlet really cleft his mom's heart in twain? Do you understand what the hell that even means? What would Mark Twain think of this?

F . How the hell does one cleft another's heart in twain? Could it involve scissors?

G .Why is suicide the correct route for Hamlet?

H . Why do poison-in-the-ear murders produce ghosts every time?

I . Did William Shakespeare mean to completely rip off the plot from The Lion King or did it just happen by accident? Justify your answer.

That’s it for now guys , hope to be back with some more soon .

Baba and his 'Bhookha' designs

It was therefore Baba ‘s pleasure and intention , that he should starve . Not that the desire to starve had suddenly descended upon him , or that he felt he would leave the granaries any bit fuller or wholesome , with a fraction more of food per million inhabitants . The compelling motive for his sudden upsurge of desire to follow in the steps of the fifty million more’ bhookha nanga people ‘ and starve his own mortal self to death , was fuelled by one Mr Anna , a south Indian professional ‘starver’ , who had given up his right to idly , had gone without it for a week , and had talked of nothing else for three more . What irked him even more was the media , who had been eloquently effervescent , and maybe, a bit too willing ,in awarding him the title of Modern Gandhi , which was rather ironical , for it was a long line of Gandhis that he was fighting against , but then again , that could be attributed to the Gandhis suffering from multiple personality disorders . Off – course , he had not met a single person in his long life , who complained of having ever suffered from a syndrome that bore even an iota of similarity to multiple personality disorder , but what with the Hindu Gods effortlessly metamorphosing into Robin blue avatars , the syndrome seemed more real than possible . But that was the least of his problems. Gandhi fighting Gandhi , he could accept , what his mind could not possibly make peace with was his rightful crown , now sitting pretty on somebody else’s head .

There was no doubting the legitimacy and irrefutability of Baba’s claim to the title of Modern Gandhi. The man’s CV was nothing short of staggering . He could perform stunts that no mortal had possibly ever dreamt of . For one , he could perform the exotic moves of Arabian Belly dance , all the while , pinned to his Asana , but that was just the tip of the iceberg . There was the entire body of freezing cold ice-berg that bore testimony of his talents (how so , I have no idea ). Some even say , that the icebergs were not really a metaphor for his talent , it was rather the sea that the ice-bergs were found floating in . He could inhale through his highly developed nostrils , and then , quite effortlessly , change into an avatar whose only solicitation in life seemed to lay in exhaling out all he had inhaled , probably to maintain natural balance , and then , of course, he could breathe in through one nose and breathe out , quite as easily through the other , and then , to top it all , he could breathe out through both noses , all at the same time . But all of those talents had come to naught, all his endeavors , his years of effort now counted for a big zero , because of some Sambhar addict , who had given up his right to sambhar and dosa, and had pledged not to touch either , until the government agreed to bring back to the India, some thousand million Black Money stashed away in safety vaults of foreign banks . If thousand million ‘Bhookha Nanga ‘ Indians , starving ever since their mother had lapsed into the foolish mistake of giving them birth , could not convince them too bring all that ‘dirty Nigger money ‘ back, there’s little chance that adding one more to the queue will change the governments mind . But then , what’s reason in the face of such buccaneering racism .

So Baba resolved that only a personally performed stunt of ‘Bhookh hartal’ , in a show of extreme austerity , along with a heavy harvest of press- photographs , could possibly reinstate him as a contender to the title of Modern Gandhi . And armed with this resolution , and some thousand supporters , who were probably supposed to prevent him from giving in to his carnal desires, in those moments of weakness that every mortal so often experiences , he marched into Delhi . However , it is for a reason that India is one of the fastest developing countries in the world ,and Ramdev much to his despair and despondency ,was to find that out .The government of India had gone so far towards the establishment of a welfare state that one could not possibly starve himself to death , unless they had the state’s permission . Certainly , the people of India , staunch spiritualists that they all are , often felt within themselves , an upsurge of such noble desires , and promptly got their intentions ratified by the Government , so that they could peacefully starve to death . Baba , not having obtained official permission , was decreed by the government as having broken the natural order of things , and was forthright labelled as a threat to the nation . However , Baba did escape the police crackdown that ensued , dressed in a salwar , but could not escape Darwins famous , ‘A mans hunger is rarely bound in poverty or want , and hardly ever shackled by abstinence , unless one develops a mind for being unhappy . Infact , as times demand , and as Darwin would vouch , a man’s hunger , might in times of need , come to define him . The more a person learns to live of the starvation of others , the more fit for existence he is .’ Also , if a tortoise participates in a competition , irrespective of who else is participating, the tortoise always wins (though , how this is relevant to the story, I fail to see )

He did later perform a toned down version of the previously planned hunger strike , ‘skipping meals to stay healthy ‘….but that’s another story.