Rebirth

REBIRTH
A short story by Tadam
Everything around me was rapidly fading. I could
feel air blowing in slow
motion, as if it were mourning for something. I
felt a cold liquid rushing
down my neck.
Was it blood?
Yes, I was bleeding.
My senses were getting ever frailer with every
passing second.
Soon, my entire body was bathed in blood. I had
been stabbed, boxed, kicked
and hit all over—the way a stray rabid dog might
be beaten. I couldn’t get
my jaws to open, not even to let out a squeak. I
couldn’t even move a
finger. It seemed as if I could no longer breathe
as well.
Yet, I felt beautifully calm. All of a sudden, I felt
tremendously light,
like a weightless feather. At that moment, I might
have been the happiest
person in the world.
Was this what they call ‘death’? Was I dying?
Yes ! It was death. And yes, I was dead.
At long last!
As I stepped out of the body that I had inhabited
when I was in the world
of men for 40 years, I looked back at it lying
sprawled out on the
street—dirty, bathed in blood and badly bruised.
Its face was like a
monster’s in a horror movie. Looking at it, I was
extra sure I was dead.
What a relief!
*
But it wasn't always like that. My human body
was once like yours. Healthy,
good looking and complete. No bruises. No cuts.
No wounds. I was alive
then. I was a supari killer. I’d hire myself out to
kill people for a
living. I killed I can’t remember how many men
and women. And if my death
hasn't affected my memory, I think I killed a few
children too.
I earned lakhs that way. Fifty thousand rupees
was my normal fee for a
killing, but sometimes I used to run discount
schemes and would go down to
twenty or thirty thousand per person.
Did I tell you that my name was Tinku Rao, better
known as Trigger Thokeya
Bhai? I was well-known among the mafia and
political big-wigs of my city. I
was rolling in money. I had no cause for
complaint. I didn’t want for
anything. Life went on routinely—one killing after
another—until one day,
when a politician came to my home. We had a
meeting. He wanted me to kill
someone’s 13 year-old daughter. That man—a
social activist—was posing a lot
of problems for the politician, or so he said. As
long as he was around, it
wasn’t possible for him to win an election. He
told me that he had even
offered the man ten lakh rupees to stop speaking
against him but that he
had refused.
‘He’s too honest for his own good,’ the politician
explained.
Not only had the activist not taken the money he
had offered, he had even
stepped up his campaign against him, he said.
And so, to bring the activist to his knees, the
politician wanted me to
bump his daughter off. That was his way of
taking revenge for his defiance.
‘It will teach him the lesson he deserves for
daring to say no to me,’ he
said.
I took up the contract. And I set to work.
I gathered the information I needed about the
activist and his daughter. He
was an employee in a printing press, where he
worked till evening. After
that, he would meet with ‘common’ people in an
open space just behind his
home. He would speak to them about their rights
and would also tell them
about the wily politician and how he had made
millions in their name. These
meetings would go on for hours. During this part
of the evening, his
daughter used to be alone in their little two-
roomed house.
That was, I thought, the best time to do the job.
*
The day for the job to be done arrived. I stuck my
revolver and a sharp
knife in my pocket and set out to the activist’s
house. I got there in a
while and tiptoed to around the backyard. I could
see the man sitting in a
patch of grass behind the house, surrounded by a
large crowd of people.
Ah! So that was him!
I slowly crossed the fence, trying my best not to
make any sound. I reached
an open window at the back of the house and
peeped inside. In the kitchen
ahead I could see a figure moving. It was the girl.
She was stirring a pot
on the fire. I could hear her hum a tune as she
went about her work.
I felt a strange quiver run through my body. There
was something throbbing
deep inside my heart. I had never felt anything
like that before. I didn’t
let myself to think about it any longer, through,
as I jumped through the
window and landed inside the drawing room
noiselessly.
Just as I was getting to my feet, the girl entered
the room. She seemed to
have known that I had been outside all that while
because she came straight
up to me laughing—a very endearing laugh.
‘You must be tired listening to Papa and his
political discussions, Uncle,’
she said. ‘You could have come in through the
front door, though. It would
have been easier, although perhaps less fun, than
jumping in through the
kitchen window!’
She had taken me to be a political activist, one of
her father’s fellow
comrades.
I struggled to open my mouth but I found my
jaws jammed, awe-struck as I
was at her innocent face and large, black, eyes.
‘Oh child! Child!....I am
just....just...ah....looking.....for something to
eat !’ I somehow managed to blurt out. I knew I
sounded ridiculous. A
killer looking for food! How absurd! At that
moment, it struck me that I
could easily have slit her throat if I wished to
right then, but an unknown
force stopped me. As I looked into her pure,
trusting eyes, I completely
forgot what I had come there for.
I had killed a lot of people—I couldn’t remember
how many. I had killed
them so brutally that even the strongest of hearts
world shrink out of fear
on hearing the stories I could tell. I had ripped
their throats and stabbed
them till their bodies had been perforated like
sieves. I even burnt some
alive. But not once had I had never looked into
the eyes of any of my
victims.
But now, I was doing that—and for the very first
time.
I couldn’t get my eyes off the girl’s eyes: such
innocence, such utter
angelic purity!
The girl walked back into the kitchen to fetch me
something to eat. ‘Oh ho!
You must be very hungry na ?’ she called out
from the kitchen. ‘Wait, just
a few seconds, Uncle! I’m bringing you some
kheer. I made it myself—this
morning!
Such beauty, such innocence in that voice!
Again I felt a strange a quiver run through my
body, and found my heart
pounding furiously.
In a short while she came out of the kitchen,
bearing a bowl in her hands.
She looked up to me and said, ‘Uncle! I’m sure
you’ll love it!’
A delicious fragrance of nuts and saffron filled the
room.
‘Had she been your daughter, how lucky you
would have been!’ I heard myself
thinking.
‘My Babuji says I make kheer very well. I’m sure
you’ll say the same after
you taste it!’ she laughed as she placed the bowl
on the table.
I lifted the bowl and put a spoonful of the kheer
into my mouth. It was
delicious! I had never tasted anything like it
before. At that moment I
felt like I needed nothing more in life and that I
could not ask for
anything else.
She stood beside me, smiling, twisting her hands
about her excitedly and
waiting for me to tell her how tasty the kheer
was.
I devoured the kheer. She saw that I was really
hungry. She offered to
refill the bowl.
‘Give me the bowl, Uncle. I’ll get some more,’ she
said as she took the
bowl from my hands.
‘Ah..ah...child! Wait!’ I managed to mumble. ‘I
came into your house
without your notice. You don’t know me. Yet, you
treated me like your uncle
and gave me such wonderful kheer. May I know
why? I am a stranger to you,
right?’
‘No, no, Uncle, you aren’t a stranger. My Babuji
says that no one in this
world is a stranger. All of us are human beings,
fellow creatures of God,
he says. He keeps telling me that loving service of
humanity is service to
God.’
Love? Service? Humanity? God? I had no ideas
what these words meant. I knew
only that one paid money for the things one
wanted. Nothing came for free,
not even poison. I had never heard anyone speak
like this in all my 40
years. What a noble soul, this little girl! And what
a great person her
father, who had taught her all this, must be!
My heart was filled with awe and trembling. How
could I ever have offered
to kill this child? How could I have ever have
agreed to hurt her saintly
father? You won’t imagine how I hated myself at
that moment.
Just then, I felt my phone vibrating in my pocket.
It was the politician
who had hired me for that evening.
‘Work done?’ he asked matter-of-factly, not even
bothering to say ‘hello’.
‘No’, I snapped. ‘And I won’t do your work.’
‘What the heck ! How dare you? Why won’t you
do the work ? You ate up my
money, didn’t you?’
‘You wanted me to kill someone who is God in
the guise of a human. You can
take your money back. I don’t ever want to have
anything to do with you and
your ilk again,’ I shot back and shut the phone
off.
*
I had made up my mind now. I would never kill
anyone again. I would make
amends for all my horrendous crimes, beginning
with begging pardon from God.
I had just put the phone back into my pocket
when I saw an angry mob charge
into the house. They were some twenty men and
a few women, who had been
sitting outside, listening to the social activist
speak. One of them must
have seen me in the house and recognized me.
After all, posters bearing my
photograph had been pasted on walls all across
the city by the police.
‘Wanted: Deadly Murdered’, the posters
announced. It didn’t take much time
for the person who recognized me to know that I
was in the activist’s house
to kill him or his daughter.
They didn’t waste a second. They pounced on me
and hurled me to the floor,
kicking and punching me. Some of them hit me
with sticks. Then, they
dragged me outside on the road, even as I
helplessly shrieked and threw my
hands and legs about like a hen being
slaughtered. I knew my end was
coming.
I saw the activist rushing to the scene. I heard
him tell the people to
stop. ‘Have you lost your minds? Have pity on
him!’ I heard him cry. But
the mob didn’t pay him any attention. They
pushed him aside and kept
kicking and beating me.
I could see a sea of black engulfing my eyes. I
knew my vision was
collapsing. I could feel my heart come to a
complete stop. I knew my time
was up. I knew I deserved a gory death for all the
gory deaths I had
caused. Evil never goes unpaid for.
The last thing I remember was seeing the girl
clinging onto her father and
shrieking. I looked into her terror-stricken eyes.
Death was just a fraction of a moment away.
Just before I left the body, my lips parted into a
hint of a smile.
‘Thank you for teaching me love. Thank you for
making this brute a human,’
I said in my mind as my eyes bore deep into hers.
And then my soul escaped from its miserable
cage.
The end.
Thanks

Diary of a mad man

‘We should not do anything without
knowing proper planning,’ a mad man
in Tezpur Mental Hospital was loudly
repeating to himself.
Ravi, a journalist with Arunachal Times ,
noticed the man and later asked the
doctor about him. The doctor said, ‘I
pity this man, but who can change his
fate?’
‘I can’t understand you, Doctor,’ said
Ravi.
The doctor handed Ravi a diary and
said, ‘Here, read this. This is his
personal diary. He doesn’t usually give
it to anyone, but when I asked him for
it, he gave it to me.’
Ravi didn’t ask any more questions, and
silently returned home with the diary in
his hands. That night, he started
reading the diary. This is what the mad
man had written:
“I used to work in a courier firm. I had
a colleague called Prashant, who was a
good friend. I didn’t take much interest
in my work. Sometimes, I misplaced the
packages that our customers sent for
delivery or damaged them. I would
deliver someone’s letter to someone
else. Prashant would advise me to
concentrate on my work, but I ignored
him.
“One day, a packet of medicines
addressed to me and sent by my mother
arrived in our office. The medicines
were for the brain tumor that I was
suffering from. I kept the packet on my
table in the office, and went out to
deliver the letters that had arrived that
morning. I was in such a hurry to finish
my work that I forgot about my
medicines. I remembered about them
only when I got home, but it was
already evening and the office was
closed and so I couldn’t return to the
office to pick them up.
“The next day, I went to the office and
searched for the medicines but they
were nowhere to be seen. I was in a
panic! I knew that if I didn’t take my
medicines on time I would die at any
moment.
“After this incident, I realized the
importance of concentrating on my
work, and so I began working properly.
I worked as best as I could, but my
health began to deteriorate as I wasn’t
taking medicines for my brain tumor
since I had lost the medicines that my
mother had sent me and couldn’t get the
same medicines in the place where I
lived. I even fought off a robber who
was trying to run away with a package
that had arrived for delivery at our
office. He stabbed me in my stomach as
I was grappling with him.
When Prashant saw me badly injured,
he exclaimed, ‘Durgesh! Have you gone
mad? You fought with that man for a
small packet! You could have died!’
“‘Let me die, Prashant! Let me die!’ I
said. ‘My brain tumor will in any case
kill me. It is better to die saving a
precious packet meant for someone
than because of brain tumor. Oh God!
Why did I leave my medicines in the
office that day? Because of this, my
health has gone from bad to worse. It
was my fault, only mine.’
“Prashant exclaimed, ‘What! Were those
medicines that were lying on your table
that day meant for you? I never knew! I
have them with me! Here, take them,
Durgesh!’ Saying this, he took out a
packet from his drawer.
“I was shocked that Prashant had taken
my medicines. I shouted in anger,
‘What! They were with you and you
didn’t bother to tell me? Do you know
that I died a hundred deaths because I
was so tense about losing my
medicines?’
“Saying this, I lost all consciousness. The
pain from my wounds from being
stabbed was too much to bear.
“The next day, I woke up to find myself
in hospital. When I opened my eyes I
saw the manager of our company
standing near my bed. Noticing that I
was awake, he said, ‘Durgesh, your
friend Prashant is….’
“‘Let him die! I don’t want to hear his
name!’ I growled angrily.
“‘Yes,’ said the manager, ‘He is dead. He
was very hurt by your behavior
yesterday, and after meeting you he was
walking on the road and then a car….’
“The manager burst out crying.
“‘Why am I telling you all this?’ he said,
wiping his eyes. ‘You are an awfully
selfish man. May God punish you!’
Then, he put his hand in his pocket and
took out a plastic bag. ‘Here, take your
medicines,’ he said. ‘It was Prashant’s
last wish that you should recover from
your brain tumor.’
“I don’t know how to tell you how
shocked I was at the news, and how
ashamed I felt of myself. I desperately
wanted to ask Prashant for forgiveness,
but now it was too late.
“The tension was simply too much for
me to bear. Suddenly, the tumor in my
brain burst. Sadly, I didn’t die, although
my mind spun totally out of control. I
went mad, and was taken to the Tezpur
Mental Hospital, where I have been
living for the last four years. Maybe this
is God’s way of punishing me.”
*
Ravi finished reading the diary. He
heaved a heavy sigh, switched off the
light and went to bed. All through that
night he couldn’t get a single wink of
sleep.

Baali

An upcoming superhero character in Indian comics universe from a forthcoming publisher Aryan's creations whose i am a part as an artist.
I did this pinup art for them. Colors are matched up by talented Suresh Kumar, who has also worked with Industry heavyweights like Rajcomics. He is currently the senior colorist of the team.
The creators of this character Deven pandey (who also wrote the story) and Ashish khare.
I hope you people like it.
I am waiting for the feedback- negative or positive.
Thanks.

Ravana from Holy cow entertainment.

Friends,
I did this artwork for a contest being organised by a leading Indian comics publishing house named "HOLY COW ENTERTAINMENT".

Funny! Isn't it ?

Funny! Is Isn’t It?

(Short story by Tadam)

I was sitting in "Ramesh Restaurant", a small eatery in our little town. I rarely go there actually. In fact, I rarely visit any restaurant in our town. That day, I went there after a gap of around four months.

The day was hot, as usually days are in summer. I went inside with the intention to have a chilled Coke. Now, some of you might ask, why do I write "chilled"? Everyone drinks Coke chilled only, isn’t it? You’ll say it’s senseless to add the word ‘chilled’ here. It’s true, and you aren’t entirely wrong. But it’s also true that we don't have regular electricity in our little town, and so the chances of getting a chilled Coke there are, at best, 50-50. Most people in our town don't care if whatever they get to drink is cool or hot. They drink it as they get it. Funny, isn't it? But well, that’s what happens in our town. And, I guess, in other remote places, too.

Okay, now let me come back to the story I was telling you—about my visit to “Ramesh Restaurant”. I went inside and sat down in one of the chairs that were scattered about. I was sweating heavily. People say I sweat too much. And I realised that they are right. I was totally drenched! I felt my throat going dry. I was really very thirsty.

I requested the man sitting at the counter for a Coke. There were no waiters there. Or, if the eatery employed waiters, perhaps they were in the kitchen. That’s why I asked the man at the counter for the Coke.

Waiting for my Coke, I looked up at the ceiling and suddenly realised that there was no electricity. The fans were all still. Now, how was I going to get the really chilled Coke that I was eagerly awaiting? I hoped there were some cold bottles left in the fridge!

Around five minutes after I gave my order, a bottle of Sprite was brought to my table. I was sitting with my eyes closed. I was trying to relax. Suddenly, I heard a meek voice saying, "Bhaiya, yeh aapka Sprite! (‘Elder brother, your Sprite!’)." I opened my eyes and was surprised to see a little boy—he must have been about 8 years old—wearing a T-shirt that stretched down till his knees and a half pant which seemed like a big dirty diaper, standing in front of me. He held a tray with a bottle of Sprite and an empty glass on it.

So, he was the waiter.

I watched the boy’s face for some moments till I realised that I had a Sprite to be drunk.

I touched the bottle. It was not cold. I requested the boy to take it back and bring a dozen bananas instead. I wondered as I saw his back receding into the kitchen, “How is this little child passing his days here? An oversized-T shirt and a dirty, over-small pair of shorts—that’s his uniform in his workplace. He’s just too young to slog like this! As a waiter, you have to be awake till the restaurant is open—which might be midnight! Imagine working like that at this age!”

I was studying in higher secondary school that year and had started to think about life, family, career and the conditions of the globe. That little kid had opened a new window of life's cruelty to me. I had parents who supported me, I had a life with no worries—except for my studies. I didn't have to think about earning money or about how to arrange for the next meal for my family and even for myself. But all of this that little boy probably had to think about. He had to earn money slogging away at what was probably a heavily underpaid job. If he didn't have parents, he had much more to worry about. He had many problems to fight with. His loneliness alone would be unbearable, I thought.

I put myself in the boy’s place and tried look into his world. My heart was suddenly filled with great respect for that thin, dark-skinned child.

I was so drowned in my thoughts that I didn't realise he had already come back—with the bananas I had requested for. "Bhaiya, kya yeh keley bhi thande chahiye? (‘Elder brother, do you want these bananas chilled, too?),  Ha! Ha! Ha!" he joked.

I was startled. He can giggle after all, despite having to slog like a serf! With all these problems he has to confront every day, he is brave enough to laugh! I don’t think I could have done that if I were in his place.

I took the bananas and gazed into his bright eyes with a smile. I asked him to sit with me. He didn't hesitate. He sat in the chair in front of me.

"Kya naam hai apka? (‘What is your name?’)” I asked.

"Rafiq Murtaza Hussain," he answered confidently.

I offered him six bananas. His face lit up even more.

"Why do you work here? Don't you go to school?" I questioned him, trying to sound as gentle as I could.

"I work here to earn, of course,” he answered. "My parents are too poor to send me to school."

His eyes lowered.

I guessed he must be sad that his parents couldn’t send him to school.

I asked him a few more, rather general, questions.

“How is life?” I asked. “Of course, I’m sure it isn’t easy. But is it very hard?”

Working as a waiter was tough work, he replied. Customers often came drunk and scolded him without any reason. Sometimes, they even spanked him. But he said the cook was very good and kind. He called him ‘Hariya Chacha’ (‘Uncle Hariya’).

My heart went out to the child. I wanted to help him. And so, I gave him a hundred rupees as a gift. I didn't have much more or else I would have given him a bigger sum.

He thanked me and said I was very nice. Then, he went to take care of the two customers who had just entered.

As I said, I felt really sad for the child. I really wished I could have done more for him. But I wasn’t that big a man who could build him a future. I was just a high school student.

I looked down. I saw that my share of the bananas was still on the table. I slowly ate the bananas. My eyes were still seeing Rafiq’s smiling face even though he had gone into the kitchen.

It took me nearly ten minutes to finish the bananas. Then, I stood up, paid the bill and started walking towards my home. It was getting dark. On the way, Rafiq was still on my mind.

Suddenly, I heard some voices from behind a tree.

"Eh, merey ko bhi ek kash marne dena! (Hey! Let me also have a puff!)”

"Abey! Ruk. Paisa kiska tha ? (Hey! Stop! Whose money was it?)"

"Abey! Pehley woh beer ki bottle khol! (Hey! First open that bottle of beer!)"

Funnily, the voices seemed like kids’! Kids talking like drunken adult men! I was driven by curiosity and went towards the tree to see who they were. I stood behind another tree, which was big enough to hide me. I looked towards where the voices were coming from. And oh!! To my shock, I saw Rafiq and three other boys, like him around 7-10 years of age, smoking and drinking! Rafiq was holding a beer bottle in his hand and sucking at a cigarette, letting out a long plume of smoke!

It was like being hit by a 1000-volt shock from a naked electric wire!

I stood transfixed, unable, for a while, to fathom what was happening. Then, in just a few seconds, all my tender thoughts about him and my respect for him vanished into thin air. And I secretly laughed to myself: "Funny, isn't it ?"

POEMS and PENCILS

POEMS and PENCILS

Scribblings by Tadam

Death

When it comes

No one knows.

It’s like Nature,

Unpredictable

But certain.

One who fears it

Doesn't know

That this isn't the end of life,

But the beginning of a new life,

Full of freshness.

‘Death gives us eternal peace’

The Greats say.

‘Death gives us great pain’

The common men say.

But what really death gives us is

A new chance

To regret the things we have

Done wrong.

And feel privileged for the good deeds

We have done.

To feel grateful to the Almighty

That He gave us a chance to live

As a human being.

Death is not contradictory to life.

It’s a new beginning

Of a new you and I and us.

Let's not fear it.

Enjoy it

As the final kindness of Life to us.

And that is certain.

I will be I

Someone says I think too much.

Someone says I talk too little.

Someone says I walk too slow.

Someone says I am useless.

I don't mind them saying that,

Because that’s how I am.

No matter, to change it how much I try,

I will be I.

Nature is unchangeable,

We are born to act as Nature wants.

That's why chalk is white

And fires give light.

Sayers will say,

Whisperers will whisper.

Teachers will teach

And flyers will fly,

And I?

I will be I.

Mirror Mystery

Mirror- mirror

Tell the truth,

Left is right and

Right is left

In you.

Why?

Do you show the truth

Or not?

Do you show the same

Or you do show the opposite?

The things you show are

So similar,

Yet fully contradict the real.

Are you truthful

Or do you display an illusion?