Desicritics Category: Culture: Bananafish

Partial Solar Eclipse Today - Do Nothing

Deepti Lamba — Fri, 1 Aug 2008 02:36:38 EDT

Listen up people! If you are pregnant, if you want to go to the awesome sale at Lifestyle, if you want to cut your hair, your nails, or any part of your body for whatever perverse reasons - Don't!! And while you are at if you are about to take up any new venture - Don't - be it meeting a prospective mate or even getting lucky for the first time.

Hold your horses, your ovaries, your sperms, your purse strings - just hold on. If you happen to be a devout believer, it would be for the best if you stayed at home altogether and did nothing.

No karma is to be implemented. Lead a zombie existence. No food to be touched, hair not to be washed, nothing!! There is bad luck and pollution in the air since there is going to be a partial eclipse!!

A partial solar eclipse will be seen in India on Friday while the north-eastern parts of the country will see quite a large fraction of the disc of the Sun, eclipsed by the Moon.

"The partial eclipse will be seen in the north-eastern region, starting from about 4 PM," Director Nehru Planetarium, Rathnasree, said.

The biggest and the last phase of the eclipse will be visible from most parts of the country, except Nagaland and Mizoram, where the eclipse ends after sunset, she said.

The maximum obscuration of the sun will occur at Sibsagar in Assam.

A total eclipse will be visible in Canada extending across northern Greenland, the Arctic, central Russia, Mongolia and China.

In case any of the above activities are performed or there is the moronic viewing of the eclipse people should report to the nearest 'shudhi' center for isolation and decontamination.

Rastafarians, Talibans and Hijabis: Charsis, Afeemis and Purdah-nashins

temporal — Mon, 14 Jul 2008 03:59:25 EDT

These are not digressions on Dar ul Harb and Dar ul Islam. LINK

Talibans have it to their credit that when they controlled Afghanistan they came down hard on opium growing. From supplying nearly 4 tons (nearly 75% of the world supply) to almost zero was one big achievement.

But they also have it to their discredit that when were driven out of power they used opium to finance their movement. Colonel North of Iran-Contra infamy has not been contacted by any media for comments. Even his patron these days Faux News has been silent over this. My contacts in ISI are not returning my SMS messages.

The annual US government estimate for Afghan opium poppy cultivation shows that approximately 172,600 hectares (426,503 acres) of poppy were cultivated throughout the country this year, an increase of 61 percent over 2005, the White House Office of National Drug Control Policy said Friday. Two southern Afghan provinces -- Helmand and Oruzgan where the Taliban has been the most active -- are responsible for the bulk of the increase. Poppy planting there was up 132 percent from last year, compared to an 18-percent increase in the remaining 31 provinces. LINK

Hijab is banned in France. Other western countries are also succumbing slowly to Islamophobia and consider measures to check what they deem threat of Islamic encroachment in their backyards. Yesterday a hijabi woman was denied citizenship in France.

France's ban on religious symbols and apparel in public schools took effect Sept. 2, 2004. The ban includes all overtly religious dress and signs (including Muslim headscarves, Sikh turbans, Jewish skullcaps and large Christian crosses). However, the furor over the ban has focused mainly on the banning of Muslim headscarves or hijabs.

There are about five million Muslims in France – five to 10 per cent of the population – the largest Muslim population in Europe. LINK

Enters former Emperor Haile Selassi of Ethiopia, a god incarnate and the Rastafarians (The name Rastafari comes from Ras (literally "Head," an Ethiopian title equivalent to Duke), and Tafari Makonnen, the pre-coronation name of Haile Selassie I.) LINK

Who Are Rastafarians?

Last year Italy's Court of Cassation said cultivating even a single cannabis plant was a 'punishable offense'. And yesterday the Court ruled that Rastafarians can use cannabis.

Rastafarians have always regarded Ethiopia as the promised land, but Italy could rank a close second after its Supreme Court ruled that smoking or possessing cannabis is not a criminal offence but a religious act when the person doing it is a Rastafarian.

Italy's Court of Cassation has said Rastafarians use marijuana "not only as a medical but also as a meditative herb. And, as such [it is] a possible bearer of the psychophysical state to contemplation and prayer". LINK

We love Bob Marley. And Jamaica has beautiful beaches also in Negril and Ocho Rios. About Hijabis and Talibans we know less. And here, if ever, less is surely more. And if you have a clear MY on the scrabble board, with these seven letter D C I T O H O you can score big.

Movie Review: Hancock

DeepakMaini — Thu, 3 Jul 2008 13:44:01 EDT

I’ll rate the movie, just for you, against my will: 3.5/10. I won’t tell you why. That’s for you to find out.

*** WARNING SPOILERS ***

The movie starts with this guy sleeping on a sidewalk bench, snoring, drunk out of his stocking cap, macho-ising big-ass, Burger King’s burger-sized sunglasses. Suddenly, some cops are shot at from a van on the interstate. This awakens the badass superhero and taunts him to save this fucked up world — fucked up at least for me. The superhero clutches a bottle of I-have-no-clue-what and begs his pardon and lets the cutie know to mind his sweet, little ass business. At least, he doesn’t shoot him on an intergalactic trip, as he does later. Now, I could write the whole storyline and bore everyone to chronic constipation, but I know better.

The movie raises many questions. I enjoy questions. There is a delinquent superhero. Fantastic. Many bagfuls of points to the writer. The writers create a superhero, but with a twist. This time the superhero is fighting himself more than any bad guy. The first question is whether he can fight himself better than fighting anyone else. Good. Over this fuming cauldron, they add Charlize Theron and make the superhero like this goddess. He does. He likes her. To connect all this up, they make the goddess’s husband want to change our delinquent superhero’s image and add a little heart shape on his chest. So the story kicks in. Superhero. Goddess. Public Relations Expert.

Flying, bullet ricocheting, wolverine flying suit. All that nonsense. Then, the meat of the story. The superhero gets back with the fucked up world. Truce. Clap clap. He saves people, police officers. He says Goo…d Jaaaab to everyone, several times. Cool. Before that he goes to jail, where he sticks someone’s head up someone else’s ass. Good stuff. There is some cute humor, too, which I liked, at the very beginning of the story, when the Public Relations Expert brings the superhero home, after the superhero saves his life from a fast-moving train.

The first part of the story ends here. Go get some popcorn.

The Goddess is a superheroine. She had lived through ages. 4 BC, too. People came after her with swords, and our superhero saved her, so he did in Miami, the last time around. Confused? Hehe. Ok. The superhero and superheroine are…I won’t tell you, go find it out. They are immortals. They were not alone, once. There were others of their kind, but they all died…because…because they became human. They died because they fell in love, just as humans do, and became mortals. Sorry shit. They were made in pairs. They were love bluebirds, cooing somewhere in the desert. So the deal is to choose between a normal, loving life and wife, and a life full of frolicking, drinking, flying, immortality, over that a superhero status, badass image, and droves of Los Angeles bitches, and truck and whale hurling, and finally a chance of being an asshole. Ooooh. Ooooh. Ooooh.

The second part ends. The fucked up writers of this fucked up world weren’t happy with just one story. I hate it.

Now, the big question. Would our superhero worry about the second part of his name or would he like to stay alive (staying close to the superheroine means death, remember?) and jump in out of the planet and hurl whales and trucks everywhere in the atmosphere? That, my friend, is the question that touched my heart. It has a direct relationship to human life. God fucked this world up by giving two things to men (women bear a similar analogy. Please sit down and keep your gun away, feminists of this world. OK. Write an article and publish it — you know where). First: Brain. Second: Something Hancock has, a man has, the name “Hancock” has, and the husband of a hen has, however small. That’s a fucked up mixture. Right? Why do I have to go after this half-species called women? Why? I spend so much of my time around the two things, of course, only when they work in tandem, not as separate entities, because separately at least one is endearing, I mean the brain is.

So our superhero has to make a choice, which is the climax. The movie starts with our superhero being lonely and shit pained with his bad image and ends with making the choice between “ahem ahem” and flying in the Los Angeles sky. And he makes the choice, as we all make at some point in our lives. Booty or Boom Boom? I say booty. Oh yeah?

Dormant Poets Everywhere

temporal — Tue, 1 Jul 2008 15:06:09 EDT

We were going to the other end of town. There was chaos on the roads. Even though both of us had to be there on time there was no movement in sight. I suggested to the driver to pull over by a roadside shack and ordered some tea.

He was born in Karachi, Pakistan and his parents were from Swabi, in the North West.

Are you a reporter, he asked me. How do you conclude that? He pointed at my cameras and notebook. I told him I wrote poetry.

This shack was some distance from the road that locals called a highway. Even though it was supposed to be winter, the heat was piercing and made worse by the pollutants and dust covering us in a haze. The flies were oblivious to the pollution and went about their business with zeal. There was this big fly that circled the driver every two seconds and then came to rest on his cup. He ignored it. I kept waiving them away, and they would fly away and settle on the hair, ear, even the back of hand - audacious little things. The ever present cacophonous noise pollution was present also. Some drivers actually believe horns assist in braking. And the rickshaws have no silencers. People get used to talking as if in a crowd. You tend to notice these things.

I could never write a poem.

The traffic was not moving as far as I could see. Even the two-wheelers that tried to maneuver through the cars and trucks had come to a halt. I called the person I was visiting to apprise of the situation. She told me to have faith. I told her I had misplaced it decades earlier.

Yes you could. Anyone can write a poem.

'Nahin saab, mazaaq mut karo.'

Have you ever made pottery? Made? Created? There are Picassos and Michaelangelos and there are Ramus and Dittas. Am seeing in my mind the clay toys from Harappa and Moen jo Daro. The line between an artist and artisan has a common beginning. Was Picasso not a craftsman par excellence? Where is the boundary? Is there a boundary between craft and art?

Are you married? No.
Did you love someone? No.
Why this smile? Yo can be honest with me.
Saab....saab...the last place I worked... I liked the chothi memsahib.
Tell me about her, I told him and opened my notebook.

I was the second driver. My duties were driving the memsaab and chotimemsaab around. Her laughter still rings in my ears. She had a dimple when she smiled. He body smiled. She smelled fresh, innocent. She would not talk with others, but she talked a lot with me. I am unread. She was attending University. We poor cannot even dream. Even in dream I could not touch her. But I liked her and her smile always hovered in my thoughts. This is written in my destiny.

I am poor and unread
but that stops me not
from thinking about her
dimpled smile, fragrance
I cannot stop this thinking
but I cannot dream of her
I cannot dream about her
this is written in my destiny

I read back this to him. He shook his head and said, 'Saab you wrote this, I did not.'

Poetry: Bajan Claire Collins

temporal — Mon, 30 Jun 2008 11:18:33 EDT

bajan claire collins, lithe
smiling eyes, pouted lips
assured, single parent
in T.O. by way of
the st. lawrence gap,
island of barbados
mother of ashley
now six and my colleague

ashley was cuddly, cute
with a short afro and
infectious dimpled smile
everyone loved him

ten years later

a dark wintry night returning late from work
walking towards home saw some dark shadows lurking
around the corner variety store ahead
baggy pants, white joggers, over-sized tops with hoods
instinctively i crossed the street and kept walking
past the store i heard foot steps approaching me
i ran a mental checklist to ward off trouble

'hello uncle t, how are you?' said ashley
relieved i inquired about him and claire

*names changed

A Letter To My Boss

DeepakMaini — Wed, 25 Jun 2008 00:19:22 EDT

Bob:

I’m writing this to tell you that you won’t find me in the office, today. I’m working from home, just as Lene did yesterday and Kel did the day before, and, yes, you did the whole last week. I haven’t come up with the reason for not coming to the office yet, because unlike Lene’s reasons, my car hasn’t broken down again, in the middle of nowhere, not far from the office, and I haven’t married recently, or unlike yours, I’m not going to the dentist for the two millionth time.

I was thinking of using Kel’s reason of having every phone, every computer, and every Blackberry in my apartment out of juice, so that I could call you instead of writing this and inform you that the phones at my apartment aren’t working. But then I thought otherwise, having not found any relationship between driving one’s car to work and Tesla and Edison not doing their jobs.

I thought maybe I could argue high-gas prices as a reason, just as Kel sometimes uses to go back home early with her husband in the same car, but then I don’t live far from the office (I never told you that…aahaa…wink…wink…I can maybe use it at a later time), so I dropped it.

Yesterday, I drank a complete, 750 ml bottle of the most expensive ten-dollar scotch, without thinking about the Indian rice and chicken I had bought for twelve bucks. I‘ve a puke-inducing hangover now, as a result, and I thought about using it as a reason for not coming, but Greg came in with a similar condition to the office yesterday, and I don’t want to piss him off by not coming to the office drunk. He mustn’t feel left out. It has to be some other reason.

I don’t have three kids—oldest being 12—as Kel has, so I can’t even use that for a reason, because kids help in focusing, I know. And moreover having kids help you learn what they do, all day long, over and over again, and what they are good at and what they aren’t, and who’s the momma boy and who is not, and things that you can use for not coming to the office, simply because you don’t want to fall behind on knowing their patterns. You have to have some stories to tell at work, too, so there.

I don’t even have a wife to take care of, and there is no way I can find one just for today. She could have cooked meals for me as I would have worked from home. She could have even sat in my lap and typed reminder emails to people who don’t respond unless I’ve written to them as many times as you have visited the dentist.

How about my visiting the doctor? I haven’t visited the doctor in a long while, and I feel bad about it. I can make up a reason, just as I did for not coming to the office, and surprise him, even take some red, purple, yellow helium balloons with me. I’ve even forgotten the name of the receptionist, how bad of me. So what do you think I should tell him is broken in my body? Arms? Legs? Nuts? Not brain, because then you will fire me, I know. I remember it feels good to drive to the hospital, pay a fiver for parking in the melting sun, and fill out those disclaimer forms, just to say ‘hi’ to the doctor and his aides.

I feel that sometimes I should be allowed not to come to the office without any reason. Coming up with reasons is harder than doing the job, so if you do the cost benefit analysis, you will know what I’m talking about. Otherwise, we can schedule a conference call and discuss over a period of many long hours the pros and cons of this method of not showing up at work.

Just a passing note, not to keep you in dark, I feel that before writing this I was stuck in a house burning to ashes and nobody was coming to my rescue, even though I had been screaming for help by writing reminder and status emails to everyone, but just as I’m finishing to write this, I feel that I’ve walked out of the burning house, all by myself, on my feet, like a hero, you know. I want you to feel like a hero too, so don’t come to the office again tomorrow and write me a letter.

Your subordinate,
Dee

It's Saturday, So Eff You

DeepakMaini — Mon, 9 Jun 2008 03:14:35 EDT

These people were out there. They didn’t stop. They didn’t know any better than what they were doing, smug about it, and silly too to some extent. These people were outside my girlfriend’s apartment, right there where no one should be at 3 AM. They were awake, smashed, and moreover disturbingly loud. They were loud with their giggles, especially this one girl, I remember the pitch of the voice, who tittered and guffawed in regular intervals.

For holy mother of god Jesus, what were they doing outside? Honestly, I didn’t know. Had I been outside at that time, I would have been moon-bathing, silently, with my lips sewed together, with nothing but the heaviness of the air, the drabness, to unsettle me, because that’s what no one does. But I was inside, in bed, drifting down into my subconscious, oh it was good going down there. It was a good beginning, and as always I was doing well, slipping into sleep. In and out, in and out, yes, that was it. Different corners were approaching in, zeroing in for attention. Oh, it was REAL heavy. And those three glasses of Chardonnay I had drunk before were helping me make peace. It was gently mellow, similar to walking on a beach on a sunny afternoon, ocean waves lapping up and down, the gentle stuffy breeze carrying scorched, spicy fragrances on its wings, making one drowsy, turning in the screw without notice. It was nice, like the first sip of beer on a rough day with no lunch, and it was yanking me down.

Oh, and this voice, the human rendition of fun. Fun at 3 AM.

I was sitting in a coffee store, stealing a glance or two of the girl in a miniskirt. She wasn’t alone, she was hobnobbing with someone, turning her gaze up and down and sideways, writing, reading, and talking, all at once. I was in her line of vision. Once our eyes met, and she snickered, so did other people, in unison, intimidating me. I looked at my watch—3 AM. What the fiddlesticks? Her voice was like the sound of daintily pouring wine, gurgly, splashy, deep.

It was hot inside. I shifted my legs to bring them out of the bedspread. A hand fell on my chest. It was still 3AM. The drone was on. The choices were clear—stay in bed or draw the blinds away and flick at the flock of bozos, the middle finger. Motherfucking bitch raising hell at such hour. Why? Eh! Why? What for? If only I could stomp outside, do my war dance, request a beer, drink it, draw an ‘Z’ like Zorro, cut the strings of her black grape sun dress, stare groggily, yawn, tootle, and come back; but how?

I turned sides. Ku Klux Klan. Get the hollering Jesus back to sleep. McDonald's. Or she will bring her aides to throw Hamburgers at me and my girlfriend, but she won’t mind; she is sound asleep, nicely asleep, and she never snores, nor do I. But this goddamn din, this ruckus.

I lifted my air-gun sized cellphone off the nightstand: 3 AM. Are we standing still in Time? Heh? Vishnu, Brahma, Shiva, what the fuck is this? Heh?

Fiction: Malady of the Emotional Refugees

Ms. Anona — Tue, 3 Jun 2008 14:58:08 EDT

So she walked.

The road was not meant for pedestrians, only automobiles, and lots of them. She had always been labeled a non-conformist, a rebel; just for being, just for standing independently. She felt exposed and incredibly alone as she crossed the rows and rows of solid white lines that had just ushered through cars and trucks with enough force to crush her on impact.

She thought about her frail body and marveled at how when walking, just like exercising, her brain released endorphins causing the mind to release pain. Muscles, in essence, held together thoughts of their own, and when worked, their memories were jogged.
********

So she walked.

He had told her to leave. It had happened before, a big argument, sudden eruptions, followed by drastic actions.

It was a beautiful sunny day during the madness of May. The garden was in bloom; windows finally cracked, letting in fresh air and cool lake breezes. As she turned back, the house she had felt so locked inside all year seemed almost close to perfection like she was already on pasture's greener side.

She left with nothing but a sweatshirt, empty pockets she filled with broken glass found on the sediment. She clenched it tight as the sidewalk ran out of concrete and turned to grass barely trampled. The inhabitants of the ornate multi-acre estates drove past her silently and without a passing glance. It occurred to her gracefully that if this were just a usual stroll down the block with a few key items of clothing removed, there would surely be an amigo or other bright-eyed cretin waiting to take her for a ride, offering his hand in a friendly advance towards supplying his energy for the muscles contracting in his pants. The thought made her want to spat, but her mouth was too dry. All her flowing juices were used up. This caged animal was set free, but left to die on the side of the road, life's collateral.
********

So she walked.

Her best friend was married today. It started off in a grandiose manner. She looked stunning as an honorable maid should. She only allowed herself a few moments of self-pity, once during the vows, and again when she saw them dance, their eyes lit steady on the other. She should be marrying him, or someone like him, she thought.

A multitude of fruity drinks where offered from every which way. Before she knew, she was drunk. The bride and groom were never the type to retreat to their habitat when a celebration was in store. It was late Saturday night and the town's only nightclub was playing Shania Twain's I Feel Like a Woman, which sounded even twangier than it should.

She wanted to go home, but her best friend nagged her. She didn't know if they would let her in, being a few months short of twenty-one and when they turned her away, the rest of her party had already gone inside. One of the newest radio hits came on, one her best friend loved, and she knew no one would look for her as they rushed to the floor.

Walking home didn't seem like a bad idea, until she got to the edge of town. Cars seemed to have minimized the true scale of the familiar terrain and made the trek seem almost formidable. Speed limits increased and the shoulder disappeared and dipped into a ditch on both sides. She had little option but to descend and let the tall reeds engulf her. The heels of her shoes sank into the softened earth and the blades of grass cut at her ankles. Her dress became soiled, but she didn't much worry. No one ever wore those bulky bridesmaid dresses a second time.

A small stream trickled under her feet. She had driven past the spot more times than she could count, but the flowing water that led to a small tributary had eluded her.

Just then a truck stopped up ahead and was sent in reverse. The driver opened the passenger window and asked if she needed a ride. She obliged. She had never seen him before and was thankful.

"I thought you were swimming down there." he said with a mischievous grin.
She smirked and led him without haste the short path to her home. It was a small town, the type of place where everyone knew everyone else, and everyone else's business. As she jumped from the pick-up, she assured herself that her hometown wasn't the sort of place where bad things happened. Nothing really went unnoticed.

She ran upstairs to her room. The sun was shining and as she looked out the window towards town, the stream she had stepped in couldn't be seen.
*******

So she walked.

It was just over a year ago she could not walk at all. Chemotherapy left her motionless. Long since divorced and never remarried, her boys now had a family of their own in separate cities. They did as much as they could in dire circumstances and somehow she made it through. She felt and looked great with only the front of her shirt draping more loosely around her.

Today she was walking, but not just any walk, the Breast Cancer Awareness Walk. It was invigorating, even though she walked alone due to her friend's last minute withdrawal. She let her mind wander and looked at the stunning architecture of the city. The younger girls were all nice, but wore shirts that read catch phrases like, "Save the Boobies". It was nice that they cared at all, but a lot of them just didn't get it and weren't really empathetic towards a real sufferer.

She had been walking a while before she realized she was lost. The girl in the pink shirt she had been following had turned onto a residential street, which surely couldn't have been the way. The only signs of life were some rap music blaring from a nearby complex, followed by an even louder woman cussing at a diminutive feature. Furthermore, the rain clouds that had been chasing them since yesterday picked that precise moment to let down their bounties.

She sat down on a rock, feeling lost and abandoned. For the first time since being in the throngs of her sickness, she felt like crying. But she had a reason then, and now she felt she had none. It felt even more pathetic to her to be sad and depressed without a valid excuse.

Out of no where, a young girl appeared, dressed all in white. She was spinning, twirling emphatically in the street.

"Excuse me." The old woman yelled after her. "Excuse me!" she yelled even louder, but the whirling dervish did not stop. Instead, she turned a corner and promptly disappeared. What could be seen, however, were the pink shirts of her cohorts a few blocks further along. She was not too far off course after all. She ran to meet the others, none of whom had missed her. Everyone was drenched and she gladly joined in on their laughter and ability to make the best of it.

She looked up. A silver lining appeared around the dispersing cloud formation. She looked back and saw nothing but dark alleys. Like a schoolgirl, she gave a big grin and ran off.

In Ten Simple Steps: Chemistry Text Book Writing for Dummies

yuvipanda — Thu, 22 May 2008 00:40:38 EDT

1. Go to the library.

2. Take out 5 different, archaic Chemistry Textbooks from different writers and most importantly, different Time Periods.

3. Find most common terms from the said 5 books, and compose 20 chapter titles from the common terms

4. Compose each Chapter body by picking Random mildly related paragraphs from the 5 books, and pasting them verbatim, without any modifications/checking for coherence/cohesion.

5. Browse the Internet, using ONLY Internet Explorer 6, and download images vaguely related to the chapter titles.

6. Mix up some sentences, add in some sentences from the latest Osama Bin Laden tape, then a few from a Britney spears song and finally a few from Neil Armstrong's last words.

7. You hate the guy writing the Physics book. Get a copy of that book. Deliberately contradict whatever the Physics book says.

8. Sit back, and admire your work.

9. Find the dealer who sold you that small-white-thing-that-feels-so-good, get some more of it, and repeat steps 6-7.

10. Find a politician to write your foreword, and another one to write the preface. Edit out all connections to Chemistry from both. Replace the politician's names with a professor's names. Publish book. Get Money. Get more of the small-white-thing-that-feels-oh-so-good.

CAUTION: DO NOT try to understand, or comprehend this textbook if you want to remain sane. This Guide is written by reverse-engineering the Author's personal experience with a single specimen of the Chemistry Textbook. May not be true for you.

The Phantom Phenomenon

Suresh Naig — Fri, 9 May 2008 12:55:05 EDT

I have lost count of the miles I have traveled in the metro trains of Chennai and the smiles encountered. I was traveling when it was Madras and meter gauge. In spite of so many years of travel, it has never bored me. I have watched many of my co-passengers growing older, but not the train. My favorite pastime during the train journey is watching people, which never bores me. Each one would be unique. Some would open a book or newspaper, immediately on getting a seat. Some would keep talking, as if they would never have the freedom of speech at home and office. But the ones who interested me were the people who followed "Dynamic" sleep. Staying alert even in sleep, for they would come out of their slumber, upon the train reaching their destinations. Perhaps the tagline of a hotel conglomerate fit me perfectly "WE ENJOY PEOPLE".

Among the sea of faces, one face in the past five years was remarkable. I have been watching him curiously for some time. He used to come in an impeccable white dhoti and a white khadi shirt. I have not seen a stubble on his face any day, for he shaves his face regularly.

However, he had a stub, which never showed on his face. His right leg was amputated just above the knee, and he used to board the train, three stations from the origin, from where I board every day. He used to skillfully board the train, throwing his crutches first and jumping into the train holding the handle, with athletic adeptness. Many a day, I have offered my seat to him in the crowded train, which he would accept politely with a smile. In the entire five years, we have never had any conversation. His presence in the compartment had a positive tilt, for no beggar in crutches, would venture where he sits.

For nearly three months, I did not see him boarding the train, and I did not attach much importance to it. In the past years, I have seen so many people retiring from work, retiring from life, but the train continues to run without any retirement. I used to think that the metro rails are the modern day rivers, on its banks, so many new civilizations are born and so many have perished.

On a Sunday evening, when I was traveling back home after making a social visit, I saw him boarding my compartment. The train was sparsely crowded. He was looking pale and appeared to have lost weight. He came and sat opposite to me. With concern, I asked him 'What had happened to you? Are you OK?'

He lifted his shirt and showed his back. There was a telltale evidence of a surgery, on the right side of his spine, in the lumbar region, the wound, sutured and healed. He said without a tinge of sadness on his face, 'Someone must have thought I am a useless beggar on crutches, and tricked me. I have lost one of my kidneys to a trickster.' I was shocked. I asked him, 'who was it and why didn't you do anything about it?'

He said, 'I couldn't identify the persons, because all of them were wearing surgical masks during the surgery,' and gave a wry smile on his own joke. I was seething in anger and offered to help him in identifying the culprits. 'At least you must have known the hospital, where the surgery was performed. 'Why don't you prefer a complaint?' He said, 'just relax. No records would exist there, as to my admission and the surgery. Moreover I don't see any purpose in doing so. At best, my face may appear in the media for some time. I am not the first person to lose a kidney, it had happened in the past, it has happened now, and it may happen in future too, in spite of the laws to protect such acts.

'Had someone approached me for my kidney, I would have volunteered to donate it. Living with one organ is not new to me.' He sounded philosophical, 'It's the "greed" in every profession, which breeds the weeds.' He continued, 'the irony is, when you add an "A" to "greed" it becomes agreed. I would have most willingly agreed to part with my kidney, as I don't have any blood relations. I would have been happy to have a 'kidney' relation instead' and smiled. He said, 'did you notice one thing? The right organs have left me', he pointed towards his amputated right leg and right kidney, which he lost.

Looking at my curious face admiring his language and philosophy, he said, 'I have a small shop, assisting people in drafting letters and affidavits, in the vicinity of High court. After loosing a leg, I borrowed some money from a bank, citing my disability and invested the same in a modest computer system and a photocopier. Now that I have lost one more organ, I think, I can expand my business' and brightly smiled.'

Looking at my grim face, he suddenly changed the subject. 'Do you know what a phantom leg is?' I mumbled, 'I heard about it.' He said, 'yes, you must have only heard about it. I have experienced it. At times, I get an itching on my right toe, which isn't there, reminding me where the leg was. I am happy there is no "phantom kidney" phenomenon, and my brain would not remind me of the absent kidney by an itch.' He gathered his crutches to alight with a genuine broad grin.