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The Saga of Warrior

Short Story When they killed my husband, it was the spirit of undaunted daring and unfailing love that was murdered. You romanticise the love that Shahjahan bore for Mumtaz because he erected that mausoleum called Taj Mahal in memory of his supposedly unfailing love for Mumtaz.  But Mumtaz was just one among the many wives and concubines on whose bosoms Shah Jahan expended his lust night after night.  Your historians will romanticise the heroism of many a ruler just because they went far and wide marauding and massacring. My husband may find no place in such histories.  But he was a genuine hero and romantic lover, a rare combination.  He fought the battles of life more bravely than any conqueror.  He loved me passionately, more than any Mughal emperor loved any of his women. Yet the universe conspired against him just as mediocrity conspires against the genius.  He was subjected to so many deaths.  Deaths in life.  Khusru, my beloved, was also the beloved of the greates

The King orders his tomb

Short Story The King was acutely aware of the smallness of his stature.   In fact he was the smallest man among all his adult citizens.   Even the queen stood half a foot taller.   He sought to solve the problem by making his crown as tall as possible so that the crest of the golden crown would stand above the heads of his citizens if at all he would ever come into contact with them.    A king cannot live without ever coming into some contact with some people.   Every such contact made the King feel small.   He tried to masquerade the smallness with self-flattery.   “I am very popular among the citizens, aren’t I?” he would ask his ministers.   Or, “How was the cultural show I arranged last evening?”   “Isn’t my new robe designed by Christian Lacroix a marvel?”   Ministers are people who have mastered the art of diplomacy and self-flattery invariably loves to call a spade a clade.   Nevertheless there is an awareness that lies deep beneath the surfaces of flattery and diplomacy

The Bagpipe Music of a Scarecrow

It’s no go the Yogi-Man, it’s no go Blavatsky, 1 All I want is a pack of cigars, and a pint of whiskey When the evening is spread out against the sky 2 Like a penitent bereft of his heavenly pie. Sorry, Descartes, I think, but I do not exist; Sorry, Bergson, I exist, but I do not change. Standing at the crossroads of life’s mid-way I look like a scarecrow scared of crows, Baffled by the tumbling turns of the tide, The flaming sword of Eden’s cherub onward To the battles and wars men fought with men: His own God’s own men, in the widening gyre. 3 It’s no go the bodhisattva, it’s no go the Mahatma, All they want is a bank balance, and a bit of sadhana On weekends to appease the thirst of the spirit That’s superannuated on a computer’s digit. Do not go gentle into that good night, my son, 4 Coat your lollipop with iron and your heart with chocolate, Fold your arms to the white of the priest’s habit, Shake your hand with the blah-blah of yo

Paradigm Shift

Short Story Manmohan returned home from the market with a bottle –  among the usual things –  that was totally unfamiliar to Meera, his wife.  “The tide is turning,” explained Manmohan, “and I’m going to celebrate it.” Manmohan was a teacher in a residential school which was taken over by a new management a couple of months back.  The new management was of the opinion that the old faculty was responsible for the “downfall” of the school.  “A school is its faculty,” asserted the new chairman.  So most of the faculty was asked to leave.  Manmohan was among the few who did not merit the axe yet. Yet! That’s not what he was celebrating, however.  “I won’t be able to meet you the whole day from tomorrow,” said Manmohan to his wife.  “See, I work in a residential school where I’m not just a teacher.  I am a parent to the students in the hostel, a guide to the students when they are in study, a tutor to the weak students, and a mentor to those in need...” “What about

The Testament

“But you worship money, Nate.  You’re part of a culture where everything is measured by money.  It’s a religion.” “True.  But sex is pretty important too.” “Okay, money and sex.  What else?” “Fame.  Everybody wants to be a celebrity.” “It’s a sad culture.  People live in a frenzy.  They work all the time to make money to buy things to impress other people.  They’re measured by what they own.” This is part of a conversation between two characters, Nate and Rachel, in John Grisham’s novel, The Testament (1999).  Rachel is a missionary in a remote part of a swampy land called Pantanal in Brazil.  She was the illegitimate daughter of one of the richest men in the world, an American industrialist named Troy Phelan.  But she had severed all links with her father (there was little more link than her name) after the death of her mother.  She had even changed her name so that nobody would ever link her with Phelan. One day Troy Phelan calls three psychiatrists to hi

Reservations in India

“One 2010 study of 16 of India’s biggest states did look at the effect on poverty in backward groups of their getting quotas of representatives, from 1960 to 2000. The report’s authors, Aimee Chin and Nishith Prakash, say theirs is the only study ever to ask how an affirmative -action policy, of any sort, has affected poverty in India. Their conclusion: for “scheduled tribes”, who are conveniently crowded near one another on electoral maps, greater political clout has indeed led to a small drop in poverty. But for the “scheduled castes”, by contrast, it has made absolutely no difference at all.” This is the concluding paragraph of an article in the latest issue of The Economist .  The article argues that the policy of reservations implemented in India for decades has been ineffective.  The vast majority of the marginalised people who were supposed to have derived the benefits of reservation continue to be poor though their leaders like Mayawati have become filthy rich.  Leader