The Bus Affairs

Mr. Hari takes a bus to his office everyday. The bus has air conditioning. Only that’s why he takes that bus, even though it takes sometimes twice his time. The bus is not even a bit faulty. But sometimes, as if to make fun of the commuters, the driver sadistically takes it very slowly across the big empty bridge that everyone else races on. It makes everyone go crazy.  

There is a boy in the bus. There is a girl in the bus. There is another girl too. There is the driver. There is the conductor. And then there are they. There is the bus-stop. And then there is her bus-stop, and then there is his bus-top. 

There is traffic.

Mr. Hari has kind of reserved a seat for himself. If anyone takes that, he is frowned upon by everyone else around. Even the conductor asks people not to sit there. The driver keeps the bus longer when Mr. Hari gets down from the bus.

Mr. Hari takes even longer.

The boy in the bus is in love with the girl in the bus. He is also in love with another girl in the bus. He is generally of a very loving nature. The driver does not like so much loving. But the conductor does not like the driver.

The girl in the bus used to sit next to Mr. Hari, until the morning Mr. Hari’s beloved wife came running to hand to him his forgotten wallet. No one knows what she saw. But the drama that followed became a legend and a subsequent life of many a gatherings. The girl no longer spoke to Mr. Hari, and Mr. Hari no longer spoke to anyone else. And that’s when the girl in the bus started to sit with the boy in the bus.

One day Mr. Hari chose to break the awkwardness and invited a few fellow corporate commuters to his daughter’s birthday. They all came and sat for a while. They all brought crayons for gifts. They sat like a bunch of stoned chimps waiting for the candles to be removed from the chocolate cake. They laughed a lot, not talking much, just looking at a bunch of excited kids play with the dog from third floor. Mr. Hari smoked his cigar while giving wife a hand in the kitchen. His wife used to be his dentist. She still is.

The girl in the bus seems to be deeply in love with the boy in the bus. Sometimes she gets down at his bus-stop, sometimes he gets down at her bus-stop. Another girl in the bus seems to have started loving another girl in the bus. The driver does not like so much loving. But the conductor does not like the driver.

Mr. Hari now sits in the front with the conductor.

_

The dog who works for peanuts

There is a dog in my colony. He works for a peanut a day. 

They had brought him from the shelter house. He was not a very nice dog, but could go around the colony and was cheap. Everyday the dog has to get up and start walking around the colony till the evening. If he ever stops, the watchman throws a ball and the dog continues walking, till the sunset, after the same ball, around the same colony.

The dog wants to run away, but he needs peanuts everyday. The dog somehow thinks that he is better off than those dogs who are not asked to walk around the colonies. They do not get any peanuts either, only the dogs walking around the colonies do. The dog does not do much with his peanut and mostly crushes it shortly after getting it. But it does not bother the dog. He loves crushing the peanut, even if it means he would never really get to taste it. 

He thinks he should move to a larger colony where he could get two peanuts, one for crushing, and one for eating ... and may be one more to save for tomorrow. If he gets four ... or five peanuts, he would just stop and get some other dogs to walk around the smaller colonies for half a peanut. And then he’d keep their peanuts too. And that’s half an extra peanut for just sitting around.

But to get to so many peanuts, the dog will have to do a lot of walking, till the sunset, after the same ball or some other, around the same colony or another.

And he'll have to save the peanut, not crush it. But the dog loves crushing the peanut, even if it means he would never really get to taste it.

That’s the dog in my colony, and he works for a peanut a day, everyday.

_

A Reluctant Salesman

Mr. Hari was a reluctant greying salesman who used to smoke fat cigars in the cafeteria of his office. He called himself Old Harry, as said on his business card.

He took the stairs when it was raining. The lift didn’t work then. There was a dog on the third floor that used to sit outside the flat with a glass door. The dog barked at him often. The owners of the house looked outside on some days to see if everything was alright. The owners felt relieved as they too, like their dog, did not like salesmen.

Mr. Hari used to sell nothing. He knew nothing, very well. He would fill it with soaps or powders or juices or coffee or cars. And he would smile and make gestures and lock eyes and wink. And every Thursday evening he would walk to the big famous temple outside of which stood police with guns. Mr. Hari did not ask for anything but a long vacation. He did not seem to be getting it.

On one stormy day the dog on the third floor got so furious that Mr. Hari tripped himself over the stairs and broke his leg. He messaged everyone he knew that he would not be available for the next few weeks. He ended it with a smiley. People loved it.

Lying over his bed with his one leg hanging and wrapped in the white plaster, he had the time of his life watching TV with his family. When his leg turned fine, he just did not want to go back.

His wife had a big fight with him. She was a furious. They locked their kids inside as she threw utensils and sofa pillows over him. He had to give up and go back to the office the next morning.

He took the stairs more often now. The dog on the third floor did not bark at him anymore. The owners of the house looked outside on some days to wave and ask how everything was, especially his leg. 

He stopped going to the temple now, and got new business cards which called him Hari.

_

The Lost Question

A question got lost. People went mad looking for it. They were suddenly finding it harder to breath. They had frantically started to look for answers everywhere since the time they had sensed that there existed a question. They did find the answers, as they believed. What the question was and what remained of it, they now wondered in respite.

People knew too many answers to pinpoint the exact question. What was it - they looked around. Why did it bother them – they wondered – if the answers they knew would become immaterial without a question.

They divided themselves into groups – search parties that looked for the question in their own ways. And they started their journey. People became tourists, and the tourists became lost pilgrims - all scouting for a question.  

‘I’ve forgotten a question.’ One of the travelers said to a holy man.

‘Isn’t that good?’ The holy man replied, ‘You won’t have to look for an answer!’ The traveler was impressed with the holy man’s answering ability, though he thought that the holy man too, had lost his question.

After a month, the holy man got invited to the International Answers Analysis Conclave [IAAC] at a prominent European city. And like an ignorant child, he ended up asking - So what is the question.

Disturbed, they asked him to go and stand at the back of the conference hall with his hands up in the air.

With every passing moment, the lost question seemed to get bigger. And unbeknownst to the travelers, the answers hid that they existed only to erase the question.

First to find the answers, and then to relocate the question - the travelers continued their pilgrimage. But the question was lost, gone forever. And the travelers wondered if it was only a question that they were looking for from the beginning.

_

Wine for the Bleeding Men

A glass of wine for the bleeding men,

Can we have it please?

Like torrid winds on a stormy shore,

With blurred visions of their path,

And the endless gore,

Drenched in slapping hopes amidst the stiff air,

The bleeding men stare still,

Can we have a glass of wine,

A glass of wine for the bleeding men?

So much bleeding,

That their skin has lost its color,

Thy haven’t lost their war,

Not yet,

But in war, they have lost themselves.

The birds have cried foul,

But like the madmen gone sane,

The bleeding men have stayed quiet.

Can we have a glass of wine please,

A glass of wine for the bleeding men.

Weapons aside,

Of stones and of iron,

Of fires and of smoke,

Of ink and of thought,

The bleeding men do not come through them.

It is the stone, the ink, the iron, 

The thought and the fire and the smoke,

That which finds them,

Those ready to bleed.

For the bleeding men have lost,

Lost their souls in a cloud,

And now the cloud shall shade them,

Wherever, whenever,

The denser, the better,

And the bleeding men shall make their clouds rain.

Can we have a glass of wine please,

A glass of wine for the bleeding men.

A slight tremble in their breath,

Comes if a drop of blood freezes,

Like a discerning wind,

The bleeding men worry of their clouds,

If the rain would become a hailstorm,

They must feed on their own blood,

And reign in the shadows of their clouds.

For the rain they want isn’t blood,

But shouldn’t wash it away either.

And thus, why some bleed,

Weapons aside,

Like madmen gone sane,

Drenched in slapping hopes amidst the stiff air,

Like torrid winds on a stormy shore.

Can we have a glass of wine for them please?

A glass of wine for the bleeding men.

_