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.

_

The Balding of Mr. Anthony Gonsalves

Mr. Anthony Gonsalves was balding. He would meticulously pick up the strands of his hair over the floor and throw them away to take a relaxed breath. He had tried everything, from oils and ointments to fruits and beer and what not. But he felt like a dead tree in a dessert. Nothing would grow on those branches ever again, and the crows and the pigeons would have a laugh shitting over it.

Mr. Anthony Gonsalves felt cheated by life in general. He often missed the way his face used to look with all that hair over the head. Sometimes he didn’t like them much and got them all shaved, yes, but little did he know that they would suddenly start leaving him like that.

Some were gone fast, and some still remained at the back. Mr. Anthony Gonsalves went and bought himself a cap. He did not appreciate wearing wigs. Slowly he became very possessive of the cap. It was the only thing that had hidden his barren soil and showed only the well oiled and combed chunk of hair at the back. His comb also never left his pocket. 

He would still go to the barber’s shop and carefully instruct the barber on how to cut his remaining hair. People who were in waiting would look at his head at least once and then try to catch each other’s eyes.  

One night Mr. Anthony Gonsalves got very drunk and felt very sentimental. So he came back to his house, gently woke his wife up and asked if she remembers the way he used to look when he was younger. ‘Of course,’ she sleepily replied covering her nose, ’you still look the same.’ Mr. Gonsalves thought that Mrs. Gonsalves had not yet noticed her husband’s balding. He wondered if she was having an affair. 

He wondered if it was her boss. 

The remaining hair at the back left him earlier than he had expected. The cap became useless now, though it always remained over his desk. He could never know if his wife was cheating. He still regularly visits the barber’s shop and gets all the little hair near his ears trimmed, remembering his glory days. He wants to get a hair transplant soon.

Also he has now hidden his comb over a bookshelf. 

_