Fiction
Warning: FOR ADULTS ONLY
The beggar pulled him out
of the rail track just in time. As he
fell on the side of the track, the train stormed past his ears like a bomb
blast he had just missed. He stood up, brushed off the pain from some parts of
his body, and blurted out to the beggar, “Fucker!”
The beggar who had just
picked up his one-string violin laughed as if he were Bhishma faced with Shikhandi. Then he placed his violin on his shoulder and
started playing a violent tune. Almost like
the Fiddler
on the Roof.
“Why did you fuck my
death?” he asked the beggar ignoring the enticement of his one-string music.
The beggar grinned through
the darkness of his mane and said, “It’s not your time, boss. Give me the money for my next drink and wait
for the next train.” He stretched out
his hand.
“Fuck off!” he said.
“Cliché,” said the
beggar. “Cliché.”
“What?”
“You are bored, aren’t
you? Bored of clichéd life?”
He spat out another Fuck off and was about to walk away when
the beggar said, “Why don’t you start fucking the fuckers?”
He turned back like Lot’s wife. Temptations.
Temptations allure. Sodom
allures. Life is Sodom.
“When I was young the
fuckers fucked Hritik Roshan. But he
fucked them back and made his life.” The
beggar was almost singing it.
He listened.
“Hritik Roshan had just
become a star. Kaho Na Pyar Hai. The
fuckers demanded money.”
He remembered. The Bombay underworld ruled the Bollywood
industry. If you don’t pay them, you
die. Metaphorically, at least.
“Hritik refused. The fuckers have their ethics. They advised him. Then they warned him. Hritik was too good. Too good, you fool, for this world.”
“Hmm.”
“The fuckers made a
story. Stories rule the world. Do you know that?”
He did not hmm. He was not interested.
“Every success is a
story. Bharat Mata is a story. Kingdom of Heaven is a story. You are a story.”
He mumbled, “Tragic story.”
“You are a fool,
boss. Only fools have tragic
stories. Tragic stories are written
about fools by the real heroes.”
“What was the story they
made about Hritik?” He asked.
“They made a story in
Nepal that Hritik Roshan hated the Nepalis.
That Hritik Roshan wanted to fuck the Nepalis. There were so many Nepali prostitutes in
Bombay in those days.”
“Oh?”
“And the Nepalis burned
the theatres where Hritik’s movies were played.
Or the underworld paid them to burn the theatres. And Hritik Roshan buckled, boss. He paid what the underworld demanded. The underworld is the real hero, boss. That’s the story, boss. The underworld makes the real stories, boss.”
The beggar raised his
one-string violin to his shoulder and played the theme of Fiddler on the Roof. Mad man!
Mad men create stories.
“And stories rule the
world,” he mumbled to himself as he walked away.
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