Khora – the Business Analyst

Khora was a scraggy dog that the tribal village owned. Though the village was surrounded by the dense forest, the wild and the domestic never trespassed their limits.  It was as common to spot wild boars, deer and peacocks in the village premises towards the dawn and dusk as to spot cows, sheep and goats grazing in the wild grass. And they lived in perfect harmony. So far so good.  But on a fateful evening somebody, high on charas, while returning from his daily chores, spotted a mighty tiger amidst tall green grasses near the village pond. It was the first time that somebody was spotting a tiger within the village boundary. He immediately ran with all his might to report it to the tribal chief.  He admitted being a little high on charas, but the news was far too important to be overlooked. The tribe chief climbed the small hill top and made a strange sound that signaled the village to gather at their assembly point. In less than an hour the docile tribe assembled. The chief announced the news and it sent a wave of shock among the villagers. There was a murmur of ideas and after long discussions the chief gave his plan to ensnare the predator using a prey. A prey that only the tiger feeds on. The intellects in the tribe soon came up with the answer – A Dog, that’s the only prey that the tiger eats and not any other carnivore. Khora was soon zeroed in for the mission. Within hours of proclamation, Khora was caged and placed near the pond where the tiger was first spotted. It was also decided to feed Khora, once in a day, to keep it alive. Khora looked happy, despite being in cage. As days passed by, the villagers grew sympathetic about Khora’s destiny. The poor dog does not know that one day it shall be devoured by the cold blooded beast and will not even be able to run away from it. Over time, the emotional attachment grew so much that they decided to feed thrice a day, and one of the meals included non-veg. Khora was in the seventh heaven; little did it know its fate. And then….

Thomas, an MBA graduate, highly professional, looks really great in his aristocrat suit.  He worked for the company which has a legacy of huge profit margins in investment banking. Despite the bulls and bears in the market, the company did maintain a graph that other majors looked up to. So far so good. At some point of time, the market went beyond the expert speculations, and the investors started losing huge money. The top management pressed the panic button. The news was far too important to be overlooked. The chief manger scheduled a conference with the team of elite managers to tackle the issue. The huddle room was soon packed full by the docile managers. As the chief manager announced the news, it sent a wave of shock among the fellow managers. To make things worse, the customer-meet was to happen next month. Tackling that was the first agenda. There was murmur of ideas and after long discussion they chartered the plan to bait somebody to the customers and somehow retain them, failing which the company’s reputation would go for a toss. A polite, diplomatic, graceful and more importantly an oblivious bait . After few more discussions, the Thomas was zeroed in by elite team of managers.  Within minutes of the adjourned meeting, an e-mail appeared on Thoma’s inbox –

“Hi Thomas,

Really appreciate your passion, commitment and hard work. Your next task is to represent the vertical for the next customer-meet. This would give you a wider exposure and high visibility – a kick start that will keep you ahead of your peers. Your name was unanimously nominated by the elite team of managers and that shows how reputed you are among the managers. The customer’s meet is scheduled next month and you would be interacting with them and re-new all the customer agreements for the next fiscal year. Grab this opportunity and prove your best.”

Thomas was in his seventh heaven as he went through the e-mail. And then…. 

.................Every dog has a ‘day’ !!!

Love & Lust – A Dairy Page

1.00 am, 26 Dec 2011:

This day marks the release of my 8^th novel. I believe, this too would bag some literary accolades just as the other 7 did. The belief was interpreted as confidence by my well wishers and arrogance by the haters. I care neither. Sometimes I get caught amidst the shutter bugs and journalists. Book release is one such occasion. Volley of questions were thrown at me and I responded as maturely as I could. But one question…It still haunts me “what is the strongest motivation for your writing”. I smiled in reply and adjourned to the function. 

Memory takes me to those days of my teen age when I was inspired by Cheguvera and Lenin and I left my house in pursuit of revolutionary thoughts, rather thrown out, when I questioned my maternal uncle’s feudal attitude. To earn money I worked as a clerk in the municipal library, where I was introduced to the world of books. On the way back to my single room rented house, I used to visit her – a prostitute, at least 15 years older than me. She knew she was addictive, and hence she lured her customers first time with a meager charge and for all subsequent visit, she charged Rs.10 more.  That also meant she will not have permanent clients, as she feared being possessed.  She tried to save me from her clutches on my first visit to her “You are too small for this and me. Don’t ruin yourself. You can sleep in that corner of the room and leave tomorrow morning; if boasting about this is all your intention”. She said pointing to one corner of the dark room. Her words blew up my rage. “I did not come here to entertain you, so me being small or big does not matter. Yours being big or small is what matters. I have come with money that you need and you have what I need.” My arrogance had no limits. Her eyes widened as she listened. “Having spent a night with a whore in nothing to flaunt about. You are nothing but a chunk of meat meant to be f**ed. Know where you stand, you slut”. She did not give up, “may be, but I did not come in search of you. Its you, who walked couple of furlongs to reach here. Which means I am good at certain things at least.” she said spreading her knee folded legs apart. “What are you good at” she giggled as I kept mum thinking about a fitting reply. “Leave that, proceed with what you have come for” She spread her arms as well.  

The next day, as I started off from her hut, I kept asking myself ‘what am I good at’. Being insulted by a whore was a greatest blow to my pride. I read a lot and write a little. “Reading is never a talent, its only interest, writing definitely is” I realized. Days, weeks and months passed by and me searching for the first piece of my article. 

Greater share of my wage was spent on the nights with her. One night as I waited for my turn, outside her hut, I wrote my first short story – titled the ‘the wait’ under the lantern that swung to the tune of wind.  I was lost in the story so much that I forgot what I had been waiting for until she moved the wooden door plank and asked me to come in. Once I was done, I told her that I wrote a story. And read it out to her in the lantern light. As I completed she said, “I still remember first time, you came here, you told me that entertaining me is not your part of the job. But now you have done it. Let me fix a price for your entertainment. Rs.5 less for the night”. And we both slept half naked under a single torn blanket on the floor. As I woke up, and paid her, she gave back Rs.5 note from the small plastic box kept beneath a heap of clothes. My first payment did not come from any publisher, but from the sweat of a whore.  My first critic wasn’t any great editor, but again a whore. My frequent visits brought her closer. “We are looking for a sweeper in the library. I can push you to that post, If you want me to”. Her reply was again an insult “I earn thrice as much as your librarian.” “But who will look after you once you lose this age? Even I won’t turn up once I feel you are not worth the money I spent on you.” I cautioned. “As long as I live, I will be in my 30s” she replied. I did not understand what she said. That fateful night, she seemed un-interested in what I visited her for. For the first time I compelled her with more money. She agreed with a gloomy face.  This time, she did not lick the sweat beads from my neck as she normally does to mark the climax and refused to take any payment. She talked about the stories she liked from what I narrated to her. Her eyes welled up with tear as she did and asked me to make a book out of it. “Writing is the best thing that you can do with your fingers. The second only I know” she giggled in an attempt to hide the tears.  

The next morning after I left I got to know from the gossip mongers who came to the library that she committed suicide. I ran towards her hut and saw the hanged corpse from a near by tree in a saree she never wore. “As long as I live, I will be in my 30s” lingered in my ears. I did not publish any of those short stories as those were meant only for her – my whore – for whom I wrote my stories – whom, deep inside I love and continues to motivate me...

Prepare for the worst

A leach bite on the leg which had already been under surgical knives 8 times, took a dramatic turn, when he could not even think of placing his leg on floor, let alone walking. The leach was kind enough to give back an infectious secretion in return for the blood it sucked. The toes swelled so much that it began to crack. The panic spread across the family, each of them tried desperately to hide it from one another. He maintained an impassive face as we waited outside the doctor’s room. It was his turn next and I accompanied him to the room. Picking up the doctor’s cue, the nurse unwound the crepe bandage. Doctor’s eye brows creased as he saw it unwound. A chill ran down my spine. He directed to get my father admitted immediately. We did. A team of doctors, comprising dermatologist, Orthopedists, general surgeon and a general physician took turns to adjudge the cause-effect. After x-rays and few other scans, they decided to administer high dose antibiotics as injections. 4 times a day. As the doctor prescribed list of antibiotics, I heard my father’s feeble voice. “Please write a sleeping pill too with that. I did not have sound sleep for a week.”Nobody was aware of him going sleepless as he never practiced sharing pain. As days passed, reddishness in the toes darkened and it spread till the calf. Situation seemed turning from bad to worse. The panic level in family touched a height that we found it difficult to pretend. He looked still calm and composed.

I inquired with the doctor and he said “We are doing our best. Don’t even think of shifting him to another hospital. We need to do a trial and error method to see which anti-biotic would take effect.” I went back to room. Took my laptop and ran my fingers through the Google home page to find out what was going on. It worsened my fear and I slid back the laptop into my back pack.

On the 7th day, doctor told me that he is reacting positively to the drug administered the day before and that they are planning to continue that for a week. A positive news for the first time in last 10 days. Few more days and signs of recovery were seen externally.

On the day of discharge, when he was alone in the room, I asked “How could you be so calm and composed, even when you knew that the infection was not getting subsided in the initial days?” He retorted “When in fear, think of the worst that can happen. In this case, the worst is infection spreading to such a level that they will have to amputate the leg above the knee level. In such a case, even a false leg won’t help. I will have to walk the rest of my life with crutches.”

All I could do was to listen and I did. He continued “One of the greatest depressions in life is the fear of losing an organ, once you overcome that, there isn’t any fear left. I overcame the fear on second day. If you are prepared for the worst, things can only get better – nothing can destroy you then”. The last line lingered in my mind as I drove him back home in the car and he was ever so calm reading a news paper, one of the headlines of which read “Low marks - student attempts suicide”. I wish the hapless knew - “If you are prepared for the worst, things can only get better - nothing can destroy you then”