Sleep deprived, you walk on broadway, thinking to yourself, "Was it worth it all?". He says to you, "Roxanne, you don't have to sell your soul tonight." It isn't that easy after all, is it? Saying isn't believing, is it? You tread on beaten paths; losing your footprints among the millions, thinking, "It really doesn't make a difference, does it?". "To whom?", he asks, checking his Guide to English Grammar. This is stupid, isn't it? I'm sick of asking questions that you wouldn't ever answer. Red light, green light, yellow. I wish it just stops at yellow. People would just stop and look around. And that, ladies and gentlemen, was the thought for the day.
"I'll force you to sit here and mark you absent!". And that, ladies and gentlemen, was the threat for the day.
Tuesday, 23 September 2008
Friday, 12 September 2008
DreamTheatre 02
Disclaimer: The following chronicles are accounts of dreams. They might not make any sense whatsoever, but I find it imperative to record them. So there go the chronicles of a million contradictions and random, involuntary thoughts. Although I am tempted to include them, no interpretation, no separate facts, no representation of real life or real things is intentionally added here. There is no theory subscribed to. All coincidences are purely imaginary, and bear who-knows-what resemblance to anything living or dead.
We're at some kind of gigantic secret medical research facility, complete with ineffective tube-lights, a few bright lamps, seepage, huge mortuaries with no sign of life or death, randomly spilt blood-stains and the familiar odour of chloroform. By 'we', I mean a set of people with some known faces. We roam about aimlessly in the facility, until we're given a small, but heavy box that must be transported to another place. And this must be done with the help of the dilapidated truck that I am to drive. I don't seem to have the slightest idea about driving that god-forsaken machine, but I'm doing it anyway. I'm leaning outside, steering with one hand, clutching with one foot and when I have to shift, I lean inside and reach for the gears. I rarely go beyond the first gear. The gears are awful. With the other hand, I'm waving, almost routinely, at pedestrians, Shanghai-style rickshaws, kids playing on the road and hawkers to move the hell out of my way. I'm going at nothing more than about ten kilometers per hour. The road seems very similar to Lakeside, I think to myself. On the left side, though, exists a vast expanse of barren wasteland and on the right, buildings very similar to those at the IIT Bombay campus.
Once we reach the destination, I transform into a little boy. The place looks like a Vietnamese war camp. The infiniteness of inundated mud, guns and explosives detonating in the distance make up the faint view of the stretch between my feet and the horizon. I'm not bothered. I find myself playing around with three other kids. One of them is a girl, and she's the eldest among us. Of the other two boys, one is barely an infant. We decide to go into one of the temporary tents. There is a black and white television there, playing a video. The video has the four of us being molested by a middle-aged man. I shall forbear describing the excesses of this scene but to say the least, it isn't pretty according to either classical or contemporary ethics. We purposefully watch the entire video, and laugh wildly about it soon after. We rush outside into the dirt and grime ourselves filthy in the mud, none of us wearing anything below the waist. We jokingly fight, trying to reach a consensus as to which one of us screamed the loudest on the video.
Four women notice and stop beside us. One of them immediately relates to what transpires. They take us to the small, heavy box and open it. Within lies one photograph and she asks if that was him. Yes, it was.
We're at some kind of gigantic secret medical research facility, complete with ineffective tube-lights, a few bright lamps, seepage, huge mortuaries with no sign of life or death, randomly spilt blood-stains and the familiar odour of chloroform. By 'we', I mean a set of people with some known faces. We roam about aimlessly in the facility, until we're given a small, but heavy box that must be transported to another place. And this must be done with the help of the dilapidated truck that I am to drive. I don't seem to have the slightest idea about driving that god-forsaken machine, but I'm doing it anyway. I'm leaning outside, steering with one hand, clutching with one foot and when I have to shift, I lean inside and reach for the gears. I rarely go beyond the first gear. The gears are awful. With the other hand, I'm waving, almost routinely, at pedestrians, Shanghai-style rickshaws, kids playing on the road and hawkers to move the hell out of my way. I'm going at nothing more than about ten kilometers per hour. The road seems very similar to Lakeside, I think to myself. On the left side, though, exists a vast expanse of barren wasteland and on the right, buildings very similar to those at the IIT Bombay campus.
Once we reach the destination, I transform into a little boy. The place looks like a Vietnamese war camp. The infiniteness of inundated mud, guns and explosives detonating in the distance make up the faint view of the stretch between my feet and the horizon. I'm not bothered. I find myself playing around with three other kids. One of them is a girl, and she's the eldest among us. Of the other two boys, one is barely an infant. We decide to go into one of the temporary tents. There is a black and white television there, playing a video. The video has the four of us being molested by a middle-aged man. I shall forbear describing the excesses of this scene but to say the least, it isn't pretty according to either classical or contemporary ethics. We purposefully watch the entire video, and laugh wildly about it soon after. We rush outside into the dirt and grime ourselves filthy in the mud, none of us wearing anything below the waist. We jokingly fight, trying to reach a consensus as to which one of us screamed the loudest on the video.
Four women notice and stop beside us. One of them immediately relates to what transpires. They take us to the small, heavy box and open it. Within lies one photograph and she asks if that was him. Yes, it was.
Sunday, 31 August 2008
Slow Regression
The other day, during that awesome Electronic Music and Beer festival at Bandra, I had a little bit of an introspection-cum-forecasting session in the midst of it all. The music was thumping, the alcohol flowing, and nobody really cared about anything other than just having fun. And I don't blame them. It was self-indulgence time.
Point one. It's absolutely mind-boggling what holding a bit of money in one's pocket does to him. Never thinking twice before ordering that extra bottle, never thinking once about the 300 Rupee entry-charge. I feel entirely free at times, then entirely miserable for wasting my hard-earned cash away. Then I start to ponder what it's really meant for. But no, this is not a socialist pondering debating the intricacies of "to each his own" and the general idea of philanthropy.
Point two; and this one, though it may come as a surprise to the reader, is about music. Background. Currently, anything in the vicinity of Western/Indian Classical Music, John Mayer or Electronica/Techno (as many galaxies as may exist between them), I would pay to hear (in the context of ready availability at a single click). And so at the gig, I was swaying away to glory to the evil, Satanic visuals and heart-incapacitating beats - basically dying a slow, excruciatingly painless and altogether fun death. Hours no bar. Exhaustion preceded the impending disintegration, and we stopped. And then there was this moment. Am I going to be doing the same thing twenty years down the line?
More importantly, would I be listening to the same music twenty years down the line? Different generations like different genres of music. Uncontested fact. But over the years, as one regresses on to be a part of the previous generation, do choices and tastes in music, art, film, food and the like alter? Within the personal paradigm, I find that I have a lot in common with my future self. Connoisseur of alcohol and music, advocate of a welfare-state, *WB in general. And that isn't going to change. However, the general question is still at large.
Is it a question of our body refusing to respond to certain external stimuli? Does the mind stop shaking to the beats of Electronica, rather subjects its moods to some flowing Philharmonic pleasures? Do taste buds and stomachs jettison the idea of infinite beer and embrace the grace of silvery wine? And if so, when and how, exactly?
Then comes another thought. You are only as young as you want to be. Age is hardly the factor determining youth, isn't it? It is your outlook, the way you think, that makes and keeps you young. No wonder creams, no self-help books, nothing. And no amount of Electronica, beer, hair-gel or stupidity can prove you to be youthful either. If one has such tastes, but not the angst, he's just plain ol' vanilla silly, or as the youth terms it today, a wannabe. Urrgh. And on that ugly word, let's just call it a night, a very beautiful night at that.
PS: There's a vowerld of a difference between being 'deft' and being 'daft'. Irrelevant, but just wanted to keep it on record. Just don't leave me alone here, it's cold, baby, come back to bed. Irrelevant, again, but, wow. John Mayer. Personal insecurity. Wow. What will this fix? Enough, now, enough said.
Point one. It's absolutely mind-boggling what holding a bit of money in one's pocket does to him. Never thinking twice before ordering that extra bottle, never thinking once about the 300 Rupee entry-charge. I feel entirely free at times, then entirely miserable for wasting my hard-earned cash away. Then I start to ponder what it's really meant for. But no, this is not a socialist pondering debating the intricacies of "to each his own" and the general idea of philanthropy.
Point two; and this one, though it may come as a surprise to the reader, is about music. Background. Currently, anything in the vicinity of Western/Indian Classical Music, John Mayer or Electronica/Techno (as many galaxies as may exist between them), I would pay to hear (in the context of ready availability at a single click). And so at the gig, I was swaying away to glory to the evil, Satanic visuals and heart-incapacitating beats - basically dying a slow, excruciatingly painless and altogether fun death. Hours no bar. Exhaustion preceded the impending disintegration, and we stopped. And then there was this moment. Am I going to be doing the same thing twenty years down the line?
More importantly, would I be listening to the same music twenty years down the line? Different generations like different genres of music. Uncontested fact. But over the years, as one regresses on to be a part of the previous generation, do choices and tastes in music, art, film, food and the like alter? Within the personal paradigm, I find that I have a lot in common with my future self. Connoisseur of alcohol and music, advocate of a welfare-state, *WB in general. And that isn't going to change. However, the general question is still at large.
Is it a question of our body refusing to respond to certain external stimuli? Does the mind stop shaking to the beats of Electronica, rather subjects its moods to some flowing Philharmonic pleasures? Do taste buds and stomachs jettison the idea of infinite beer and embrace the grace of silvery wine? And if so, when and how, exactly?
Then comes another thought. You are only as young as you want to be. Age is hardly the factor determining youth, isn't it? It is your outlook, the way you think, that makes and keeps you young. No wonder creams, no self-help books, nothing. And no amount of Electronica, beer, hair-gel or stupidity can prove you to be youthful either. If one has such tastes, but not the angst, he's just plain ol' vanilla silly, or as the youth terms it today, a wannabe. Urrgh. And on that ugly word, let's just call it a night, a very beautiful night at that.
PS: There's a vowerld of a difference between being 'deft' and being 'daft'. Irrelevant, but just wanted to keep it on record. Just don't leave me alone here, it's cold, baby, come back to bed. Irrelevant, again, but, wow. John Mayer. Personal insecurity. Wow. What will this fix? Enough, now, enough said.
Thursday, 21 August 2008
Charkha, an attempt at an Album Review
The Album ‘Charkha’ by Rahat Fateh Ali Khan. Get it, play it over and over again. Then slash your wrists and die*, because you’ve heard it all. Enough said.
But I will say more. After listening to the album, one has two options. Either he remains dead silent and lets the light bouncing off the tears streaming down his face speak the encrypted story of a thousand words, a million expressions and countless summer nights of wonderful dreaming; or if he has started writing something about it, he just never stops.
Before attempting my hand at classifying the art into any kind of genre, there are a few other things that I must touch upon. First, I have never heard anything that felt so familiar, so one with me. Maybe it’s the Indian soil reeking from every note, every ‘harkat’ completing every antara. It has the capability to touch people. Second, the lyrics – I am yet to found out who the creator(s) is (are). But the day I find out, and fate permitting, our paths cross, I will touch their feet. I don’t understand a word. But I can relate to them at some other level that simply cannot be explained in words.
This reminds me of an anecdote. About a year ago in Delhi, my mother and I visited the Nizammudin Chisti dargah – someone had advised mother to feed hundred needy ones a meal. Not that I believe in any such rituals as an opportunity to redeem your lost karma points, but I went ahead with it just because the idea was noble and for the sheer thrill of seeing a new place belonging to another time-zone and another culture. I went, I saw, I was moved. But then there was Mirza Ghalib’s dargah right there. I went, I saw, I touched his feet. Creating such poetry isn’t a skill, it’s a gift. Whatever respect given to such great men is just not enough.
I’ve heard a lot of sufi and Hindustani Classical music, owing to my parents. Although this album doesn’t belong to either, it pays homage to both. That is the beauty of it. The music is haunting, the compositions heart-wrenching. And from this horrible state of pain and terror emanates a gulf of pure pleasure, and joy of existence. I’ve also heard a lot of Rahat Fateh Ali Khan. He is gifted beyond doubt. People compare him with his equally superb uncle Nusrat, but I believe he has invented another class for himself with this album.
Finally, it delights me happy that there are people that just wouldn’t let these beautiful things about our culture die, despite giant alien influences. I want to do my part. Someone teach me how to sing, and then how to compose. Enough said now. I shall go back to meditating in my own state of trance.
*The apt description of the album borrowed from another review. I don’t feel the slightest bit of shame.
Wednesday, 23 January 2008
On Civil Disobedience
Saint Augustine once said, "An unjust law is no law at all." Hence it becomes my right, rather my duty, to resist such laws - either by violence or by civil disobedience. You should pray I choose the latter.
Wednesday, 16 January 2008
One Big Family
This tall lanky friend of mine goes back to his hometown, to give JEE fundae to his fellow villagers. Not surprisingly – as is the case with most North Indian cities, a good-looking young aspirant enquires sweetly, “Bhaiya, aap kitne ghante padhte the?” My furious and embarrassed friend answered, but only for the sake of completeness; the sake of universal action-reaction balance – you know how. Then he recounts overhearing another two lovely girls on a gear-less scooty, mercilessly aiming pot-shots at the poor fellow, “Arrey, yeh to wohi bhaiya hain na, jinhone JEE clear kiya tha?” He, then, also recounts the lovely experience when this other beautiful girl came to his own house, just to call him ‘Aap’. Yes, ‘Aap’, nothing more, nothing less. For the record, he is still single.
Aunty (Enti, Aantiji, in Hindi), Uncle (Ankal, Ankilji, in Hindi), Bhaiya (Pronounced the same in Hindi, spelt who knows which way, among its various variations), Didi (Same as the previous parenthesis), Bhabi (I’m bored of doing this time and again. In fact, I’m scared. Repetition makes my shudder in my dreams that very night. Especially when associated with Hindi songs of extremely poor taste. By the way, sitting inside long parentheses which have no real relevance to what is actually happening in the outside world is comfortably cosy; and blissfully ignorant; and horribly wrong. I like :) – household ways to address people we don't know - are chanted in such merry unison that the entire nation resonates with happy family vibrations.
I have a problem with this, though. Apart from the obvious stereotype that this creates – the wicked Aunties and the loving Didis – I hate what these titles do to our psyche. Another fine example, if the ones before weren’t enough follows. A lovely young woman, draped in the finest salwar-suit one could imagine – the perfect ‘Wife to Be’ magazine cover face, might go to her neighbour’s house looking for that eventful bowl of sugar, only to discover that the lovely old Aunty isn’t in. Oh, but her strapping young lad, exactly-her-age-plus-a-day years old, is. And she, once the natural carnal instincts give way to the fallout from the woefully horrible fact (The fact that she knows about it, speaks a lot for itself) a mere sentence ago, politely asks, “Bhaiyya, thodi chini hogi?” The very fact that you might consider, instinctively as it may be, to call me incestuous, is testament to my hypothesis. Heck, what hypothesis, it frikkin’ exists, happens every frikkin’ day.
The ‘y’ in ‘Bhaiyya’ couldn’t be longer or more in-your-face, quite as much as the spatter from that little bubble bursting – the one that the poor chap created, with the two of them dancing on a strawberry cheese cake with snowflakes engulfing the love that’s in the air. All right fine, not the perfect dessert for a wedding; but hey, try them, and you’ll know ‘y’.
I must also address the wonder that is ‘yaar’. Although the savoir-faire that using this one of a kind pronoun is, one isn’t quite making the requisite noble efforts that we as Indians must, to make this beautiful world one big family. An open request to all lovely ladies and gentlemen is in order – please do not – repeat – do not exaggerate the number of ‘a’s between ‘y’ and ‘r’.
I’ll tell you what I like about this phenomenon too. It is the best alternative to “Dude, ‘sup?” or “What’d’yoo want, bitch?” or “Hey girl, what type'a stereo you got?” Period.
I sign off in hopes that people remember the names of people they know – even the first one, if not entirely convenient – while they’re alive. If Miss World reads my obituary after I die (Apparently, they’re writing obituaries for living dudes and bitches too. Cool!) and calls me ‘Bhaiyya’, I couldn’t care less; but while I’m alive – Hey! The name’s Tarun, and you can call me whatever you want, baby.
Aunty (Enti, Aantiji, in Hindi), Uncle (Ankal, Ankilji, in Hindi), Bhaiya (Pronounced the same in Hindi, spelt who knows which way, among its various variations), Didi (Same as the previous parenthesis), Bhabi (I’m bored of doing this time and again. In fact, I’m scared. Repetition makes my shudder in my dreams that very night. Especially when associated with Hindi songs of extremely poor taste. By the way, sitting inside long parentheses which have no real relevance to what is actually happening in the outside world is comfortably cosy; and blissfully ignorant; and horribly wrong. I like :) – household ways to address people we don't know - are chanted in such merry unison that the entire nation resonates with happy family vibrations.
I have a problem with this, though. Apart from the obvious stereotype that this creates – the wicked Aunties and the loving Didis – I hate what these titles do to our psyche. Another fine example, if the ones before weren’t enough follows. A lovely young woman, draped in the finest salwar-suit one could imagine – the perfect ‘Wife to Be’ magazine cover face, might go to her neighbour’s house looking for that eventful bowl of sugar, only to discover that the lovely old Aunty isn’t in. Oh, but her strapping young lad, exactly-her-age-plus-a-day years old, is. And she, once the natural carnal instincts give way to the fallout from the woefully horrible fact (The fact that she knows about it, speaks a lot for itself) a mere sentence ago, politely asks, “Bhaiyya, thodi chini hogi?” The very fact that you might consider, instinctively as it may be, to call me incestuous, is testament to my hypothesis. Heck, what hypothesis, it frikkin’ exists, happens every frikkin’ day.
The ‘y’ in ‘Bhaiyya’ couldn’t be longer or more in-your-face, quite as much as the spatter from that little bubble bursting – the one that the poor chap created, with the two of them dancing on a strawberry cheese cake with snowflakes engulfing the love that’s in the air. All right fine, not the perfect dessert for a wedding; but hey, try them, and you’ll know ‘y’.
I must also address the wonder that is ‘yaar’. Although the savoir-faire that using this one of a kind pronoun is, one isn’t quite making the requisite noble efforts that we as Indians must, to make this beautiful world one big family. An open request to all lovely ladies and gentlemen is in order – please do not – repeat – do not exaggerate the number of ‘a’s between ‘y’ and ‘r’.
I’ll tell you what I like about this phenomenon too. It is the best alternative to “Dude, ‘sup?” or “What’d’yoo want, bitch?” or “Hey girl, what type'a stereo you got?” Period.
I sign off in hopes that people remember the names of people they know – even the first one, if not entirely convenient – while they’re alive. If Miss World reads my obituary after I die (Apparently, they’re writing obituaries for living dudes and bitches too. Cool!) and calls me ‘Bhaiyya’, I couldn’t care less; but while I’m alive – Hey! The name’s Tarun, and you can call me whatever you want, baby.
Monday, 10 September 2007
Untitled, Scene 1.
(Round table in the middle. Left, seated is Harish, right, seated is Raj Kumar. Both formally dressed. A deck of cards on the table. Raj Kumar shuffling. Scotch glasses with both of them.)
Harish : So who is this guy you've called over?
Raj Kumar : Nishant Chauhan. Haven't you heard of him?
Harish : (Irritated.) Well, apparently not. So what about him?
Raj Kumar : He's the biggest name in the industry today, Harish! Reportedly has the biggest winery in India. Rolls in millions. (Harish irritated.) But he's one of his kind. No personal interviews, no background. Anyway, he earns more than either one of us. And I've been unusually lucky. So I thought, well, why shouldn't I loot the two of you for my bread and butter, or should I say, wine and whiskey. (Laughs.)
Harish : (Disturbed.) A winery? Then how in hell have I not heard of him?
Raj Kumar : That's because you don't read, Harish. You do know how to, right? (A distasteful look by Harish.)
Raj Kumar : All right, all right. No jokes with you!Anyway, he's on the cover of every magazine I read. Wait a second .. (Takes a copy from side table, hands to him.) See for yourself.
Harish : (Reads a bit. Almost looking for something negative.) Hmm. He imports his grapes .. From Spain. Huh. Winery in Goa .. Already has business tie-ups in South America, South-East Asia and West Europe .. I just don't ..
Raj Kumar : Oh, off with it! What difference does it make to you. You make whiskey. No competition, right. Except on the poker table. (Both smile.) And cheers to that!
Harish : (Not entirely satisfied.) Cheers. Correct, but .. Something doesn't feel ..
(Enter Nishant Chauhan. Harish stops immediately. Both observe. Dark overcoat and stick in hand. Ramesh follows, with gun strap visible. Raj Kumar gets up, offers his hand, they shake. Ramesh removes Chauhan's coat, pulls seat, seats him in the middle of scene, then backs off.)
Raj Kumar : Welcome, Mr. Chauhan. What shall I get for you?
(Chauhan gestures to Ramesh.)
Ramesh : Please don't bother, Sir. Mr. Chauhan is extremely particular about his concoctions. I'll take care of that.
Raj Kumar : (Surprised.) Very well, then. (Gesturing.) The bar is to your left. Oh, and Mr. Chauhan, let me introduce to you, Mr. Harish Sharma, Chairman of Findler Whiskey.
(Chauhan looks, shakes hand. Harish apprehensive.)
Harish : Pleased to meet you. I'm surprised we haven't met before. Certainly would like to know you better. There are ways we could help each other? (Wry, yet confident smile.)
(Chauhan smiles back. Gestures to play on.)
Raj Kumar : Well, certainly, you must be sparing valuable time. Let's get on with it. (Chauhan raises glass to approve of idea.) Harish, your deal.
(Lights off.)
(Lights on.)
Raj Kumar : Three games in a row, Mr. Chauhan. Seems you have all the aces up your sleeve, eh? (Grin.)
(Chauhan grins back confidently. Gestures Harish to deal the next. Harish is disturbed. Gulps down his drink. And orders Raj Kumar to get another. He obliges.)
(Lights off. Slightly long pause.)
(Lights on. Ramesh on the phone. Then goes to Chauhan and whispers something. Chauhan nods.)
Harish : (Seemingly drunk.) And I raise you another ten thousand!
Raj Kumar : I'm down, Harish. Can't take this beating anymore. Anyone for another drink? (Tries to address Chauhan. Then realizes.) Umm .. Ramesh, would you fix Mr. Chauhan with a refill?
Ramesh : I don't think that would be possible, Sir. Mr. Chauhan really must leave for urgent business.
Harish : Very well, then. This would be the last hand. So why not, eh, Raj? For old time's sake, I raise you my Rolex! And this time you won't beat me with your tricks. (Laughs devilishly.)
Raj Kumar : (Disturbed.) Oh, no you don't! You've had one too many now! Relax! Your son gave that to you as a birthday present, remember?
Harish : Very well do. And the watch stays. (Laughs.)
(Chauhan picks up the watch and keeps it next to Harish's money.)
Harish : (Gets up.) Hey you! Don't you dare touch it unless you win it.
(Chauhan gestures Ramesh to handle him. Ramesh does. A scuffle between the two.)
Raj Kumar : Enough, Harish! Enough! That's it! You want to play, play in your seat. Else, leave!
(Harish does what is told. Points a finger at Chauhan and keeps back the wrist watch.)
Raj Kumar : (In disgust.) Fine. If that's what you want. Go ahead.
(They play. Harish doubles his bet time and again, till he has nothing. Gulps down drink after drink. Sports a wry smile always. Chauhan wins in the end. Always was confident.)
Harish : (Clearly disturbed.)You bastard! You cheat! This is all a trick, Raj. He's robbing us! (Falls while trying to catch hold of him. And does. Chauhan gets up and fights him off.)
Raj Kumar : (Helping him up.) Off with it Harish! That's enough. Get a hold of yourself! I apologize, Mr. Chauhan.
(Chauhan gestures to Ramesh, who gathers the money. Gets up fiercely. Ramesh is just about helping him with his coat, that Harish snaps out a revolver and points it to Chauhan.)
Harish : (With bloodshot eyes, barely on his feet.) Give me back my watch!
Raj Kumar : (Clearly unsettled.) Look, Harish. You must calm down. Hey, listen. I'll buy you another watch. Just let go of the gun. Give it here.
Harish : Shut up, Raj. This man is a cheat. (To Chauhan.) Give it back!
Ramesh : Sir, in the name of sportsmanship, Mr. Chauhan won it fairly!
Harish : Fairly my foot. There's something fishy here. And I want to find out. So what do you do? Some magic trick? Or are you a freak? A psychic? Give me back my watch, you freak!
(Chauhan is extremely angry. Throws off his coat, approaches Harish who can barely hold the gun, snaps it off him points it at him and shoots him. Raj Kumar is in shock. Ramesh quickly gathers things.)
(Lights off.)
Harish : So who is this guy you've called over?
Raj Kumar : Nishant Chauhan. Haven't you heard of him?
Harish : (Irritated.) Well, apparently not. So what about him?
Raj Kumar : He's the biggest name in the industry today, Harish! Reportedly has the biggest winery in India. Rolls in millions. (Harish irritated.) But he's one of his kind. No personal interviews, no background. Anyway, he earns more than either one of us. And I've been unusually lucky. So I thought, well, why shouldn't I loot the two of you for my bread and butter, or should I say, wine and whiskey. (Laughs.)
Harish : (Disturbed.) A winery? Then how in hell have I not heard of him?
Raj Kumar : That's because you don't read, Harish. You do know how to, right? (A distasteful look by Harish.)
Raj Kumar : All right, all right. No jokes with you!Anyway, he's on the cover of every magazine I read. Wait a second .. (Takes a copy from side table, hands to him.) See for yourself.
Harish : (Reads a bit. Almost looking for something negative.) Hmm. He imports his grapes .. From Spain. Huh. Winery in Goa .. Already has business tie-ups in South America, South-East Asia and West Europe .. I just don't ..
Raj Kumar : Oh, off with it! What difference does it make to you. You make whiskey. No competition, right. Except on the poker table. (Both smile.) And cheers to that!
Harish : (Not entirely satisfied.) Cheers. Correct, but .. Something doesn't feel ..
(Enter Nishant Chauhan. Harish stops immediately. Both observe. Dark overcoat and stick in hand. Ramesh follows, with gun strap visible. Raj Kumar gets up, offers his hand, they shake. Ramesh removes Chauhan's coat, pulls seat, seats him in the middle of scene, then backs off.)
Raj Kumar : Welcome, Mr. Chauhan. What shall I get for you?
(Chauhan gestures to Ramesh.)
Ramesh : Please don't bother, Sir. Mr. Chauhan is extremely particular about his concoctions. I'll take care of that.
Raj Kumar : (Surprised.) Very well, then. (Gesturing.) The bar is to your left. Oh, and Mr. Chauhan, let me introduce to you, Mr. Harish Sharma, Chairman of Findler Whiskey.
(Chauhan looks, shakes hand. Harish apprehensive.)
Harish : Pleased to meet you. I'm surprised we haven't met before. Certainly would like to know you better. There are ways we could help each other? (Wry, yet confident smile.)
(Chauhan smiles back. Gestures to play on.)
Raj Kumar : Well, certainly, you must be sparing valuable time. Let's get on with it. (Chauhan raises glass to approve of idea.) Harish, your deal.
(Lights off.)
(Lights on.)
Raj Kumar : Three games in a row, Mr. Chauhan. Seems you have all the aces up your sleeve, eh? (Grin.)
(Chauhan grins back confidently. Gestures Harish to deal the next. Harish is disturbed. Gulps down his drink. And orders Raj Kumar to get another. He obliges.)
(Lights off. Slightly long pause.)
(Lights on. Ramesh on the phone. Then goes to Chauhan and whispers something. Chauhan nods.)
Harish : (Seemingly drunk.) And I raise you another ten thousand!
Raj Kumar : I'm down, Harish. Can't take this beating anymore. Anyone for another drink? (Tries to address Chauhan. Then realizes.) Umm .. Ramesh, would you fix Mr. Chauhan with a refill?
Ramesh : I don't think that would be possible, Sir. Mr. Chauhan really must leave for urgent business.
Harish : Very well, then. This would be the last hand. So why not, eh, Raj? For old time's sake, I raise you my Rolex! And this time you won't beat me with your tricks. (Laughs devilishly.)
Raj Kumar : (Disturbed.) Oh, no you don't! You've had one too many now! Relax! Your son gave that to you as a birthday present, remember?
Harish : Very well do. And the watch stays. (Laughs.)
(Chauhan picks up the watch and keeps it next to Harish's money.)
Harish : (Gets up.) Hey you! Don't you dare touch it unless you win it.
(Chauhan gestures Ramesh to handle him. Ramesh does. A scuffle between the two.)
Raj Kumar : Enough, Harish! Enough! That's it! You want to play, play in your seat. Else, leave!
(Harish does what is told. Points a finger at Chauhan and keeps back the wrist watch.)
Raj Kumar : (In disgust.) Fine. If that's what you want. Go ahead.
(They play. Harish doubles his bet time and again, till he has nothing. Gulps down drink after drink. Sports a wry smile always. Chauhan wins in the end. Always was confident.)
Harish : (Clearly disturbed.)You bastard! You cheat! This is all a trick, Raj. He's robbing us! (Falls while trying to catch hold of him. And does. Chauhan gets up and fights him off.)
Raj Kumar : (Helping him up.) Off with it Harish! That's enough. Get a hold of yourself! I apologize, Mr. Chauhan.
(Chauhan gestures to Ramesh, who gathers the money. Gets up fiercely. Ramesh is just about helping him with his coat, that Harish snaps out a revolver and points it to Chauhan.)
Harish : (With bloodshot eyes, barely on his feet.) Give me back my watch!
Raj Kumar : (Clearly unsettled.) Look, Harish. You must calm down. Hey, listen. I'll buy you another watch. Just let go of the gun. Give it here.
Harish : Shut up, Raj. This man is a cheat. (To Chauhan.) Give it back!
Ramesh : Sir, in the name of sportsmanship, Mr. Chauhan won it fairly!
Harish : Fairly my foot. There's something fishy here. And I want to find out. So what do you do? Some magic trick? Or are you a freak? A psychic? Give me back my watch, you freak!
(Chauhan is extremely angry. Throws off his coat, approaches Harish who can barely hold the gun, snaps it off him points it at him and shoots him. Raj Kumar is in shock. Ramesh quickly gathers things.)
(Lights off.)
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