The Young Hermit

Far away from the bustling population, somewhere in the foothills of the Himalayas, there lies a small town by a mighty river. The place is so serene, people say, that many have left their mundane lives to visit this town, seeking the true meaning of their very existence. Others, I hear, just visit for the good steaks that they serve by the poolside at a certain restaurant considered world famous. They call it “The Pigtailed Sage” restaurant – named after a rather ravenous hermit who lived many centuries ago and was quite fond of steaks especially when prepared medium rare.

 

I was neither particularly fond of steaks, nor was I searching for any specific meaning of my existence. But I needed some quiet time by myself. And I will tell you why.

 

I work as a call center agent. For those who are unfamiliar with this line of work, a brief explanation is in order. A call center agent is essentially one who caters to the disgruntled members of the general population, who want to vent out on an unknown unseen face, so they can seek some queer satisfaction from the very act of venting out. I am not making it up. There exists such a profession and this is exactly what I have been doing for a living for the most part of my adult life. It is not a profession for the faint hearted, I can tell you that.

 

As you can possibly imagine, every now and then, a call center agent would want a break. A breath of fresh air, possibly even a steak, done medium rare or otherwise. A break is precisely what I sought, when I decided to venture out to the small town by the river in the foothills of the Himalayas.

 

It was a wet dreary morning when I boarded the flight to the nondescript airport about 15 miles from the Himalayan town. A short cab drive, an overcrowded boat ride and a quick walk got me to the hotel somewhere in the north bank of the river. It was a noticeably clean looking hotel, something that I was not expecting in this part of the world. A quick warm bath and a bottle of cold coconut water helped soothe by frail nerves after the uneventful yet tiring journey.

 

After a short afternoon nap, I found myself sufficiently rejuvenated. It was early evening and I decided to venture out looking for food and possible entertainment. Little did I suspect what was in store for me.

 

As I started taking a slow stroll by the river, I bumped into a certain bearded person who was sitting on a plastic chair by the river. He had a curious garb on and had a looney look on his face. The sun was setting on the other side of the river, and I could hear devotional music at the far end. It was a perfect setting for the soul to soothe.

 

I don’t know what got me, probably the curious sight of someone sitting on a plastic chair on the pebbled riverbank, or probably the sweet aroma that filled the air about him. But I decided to engage in a conversation with the bearded bloke. There was no other furniture about him. So, I decided to make myself comfortable on a sizable boulder not too far from him.

 

Soon, we found ourselves engaged in a deep conversation about the true purpose of life. Mr. bearded person turned out to be all of twenty eight years old, formerly married, child and presently separated from wife and child, in pursuit of deeper meanings of life. He had me completely hooked on. He let me know that he had implanted himself in the said town for more than a few years and was on the verge of attaining enlightenment by the very bank of the river he had comfortably seated himself on the given plastic chair. I considered it impolite to enquire about the missing tree.

 

I do not recollect if it was the serene environment, the deep conversation with the young hermit or the very air about his persona, that I started feeling very happy. All my fatigue suddenly started to ebb and I was almost having the giddy feeling one gets when one experiences sudden true love. It was so palpable that we both found ourselves in a trance. We looked deep into each other’s eyes and just stopped short of holding hands. I was in seventh heaven.

 

The next thing I realized was the strong rays of sun on my unsuspecting eyes. When I woke up, I realized that I felt even lighter than before. Not only did my soul feel light, my body was practically weightless. On further enquiry, I found my outer garments missing. So were my mobile phone and purse. Slowly the memories of the previous night dawned upon me. In my blissful ecstasy, I had failed to notice the thick smoke that was emanating from our young hermit. Only later did I learn that the small town by the foothills of the Himalayas had few other attractions than serenity and steaks.

Hanging out with Stolichnaya

Stolichnaya is fun. With her, it is so easy to converse. And more importantly, with her, it is easy to not converse, when you want that bit of solitude. You can talk just about anything in her company. I used to cherish every moment spent with her - night or day, breakfast or dinner, alone or with other company. In short, there is not an occasion when I would feel out of sorts with her around.

Topics like this are a little personal to me and I usually do not discuss such matters in an open forum, let alone an internet blog. But events of my life lately have given me the courage to open up a little bit and share my feelings. Before I start, just to help you form a mental image, let me give you a little background to my story.

I grew up in a staunch vegetarian teetotaler family somewhere in the east of the Vindyas. In that part of the world, those days, children were expected to not only go to school but also do well. There was too much undue pressure. I was an extroverted kid who wanted to just go out there and have fun. Sitting in a dimly lit room doing algebra was not my thing at all. But my parents would have it no other way. End result - I flunked my eighth grade. This was the turning point of my life. I was so scared to face my law abiding parents that I decided to run away from home. It was a very long walk from school to the local bus station.

Long story short, I found myself in a big city doing odd jobs and fending for myself in the ripe young age of fourteen. But as they say, nothing teaches you more than life itself. I did well for myself, given the circumstances. With all humility, I used to have a way with the written word, even with my premature exit from formal education. In one of my odd jobs that involved sorting books in a second hand book store, the owner noticed my talent and got me a copywriter job at a local advertising agency.

Life was a roller coaster ride from there on. The job soon took me to places. One week I would be in Madrid walking the corridors of the Plaza de Cibeles and the next I would be negotiating traffic in the crowded streets of a sub Saharan town. As they say, I was going places - I was flying high. Now, you would be wondering what copywriter job on earth makes you travel inter-continentally, let alone the odd trip to the local branch-office. I do not blame you. You are well within your rights to caste an aspersion, frown at me. Your question is legitimate. Let me calm your nerves, allay your suspicions and restore my integrity.

In the course of the first two years at the copywriter desk, I picked up languages. I first picked Chinese as the obvious easy choice anyone would first try their hands at in the business of professional translation. Then I moved to Swahili and gradually to the more difficult ones such as French and German. I did well for myself. Soon, I was the official translator copywriter of choice in the firm. I started traveling to pick up nuances of the local dialects and that too, can you believe, at company expenses. This was a dream come true for me, a clean sweep, winner takes it all kind of setup - meeting new people, exploring new cultures while performing the only job I was good at – all expenses paid.

You must be thinking the fun is all over, the story is told, game over. You cannot be more wrong. Sit tight and hold on to your horses.

One of my business trips landed me in Vladivostok. Little did I know the bright sunny morning, that my quest for linguistic exploration would turn my entire life upside down in one single trip to the most commonplace of business destinations. It was in this trip one fateful weekend evening that my local guide took me to a friendly gathering and introduced me to Stolichnaya. Yes, the very same Stolichnaya that I began my story with. The rest, as they say, was history.

With my very conservative upbringing, at first I was hesitant to open up to her. But once I got going, there was no stopping me – conversation flowed. To say that she was delightful company would be an understatement. With zero warning, she had my mental juices flowing. I was unprepared. In her company, suddenly I was a transformed man. I copywrote like a maniac, translated like there was no tomorrow. There was no frontier left unknown, no border to be trespassed any more, no alphabet unexplored. I started seeking her for breakfast lunch and dinner. I would have her by my side even when I sought solitude on my copywriting desk. No business trip went by without making special arrangements to have her accompany me. She almost became an obsession with me.

In my delirium of obsessive indulgence, I got carried away a little too far. In one of the business trips to somewhere in a region commonly referred to as middle east (Although it is neither in the middle of anywhere, nor in the east), I had special arrangements made to have Stolichnaya accompany me all the way from St. Petersburg. She was to join me directly while I flew from the nondescript town where I had my home office set up. I was anxious to have her by my side the moment I got to my hotel room, let business take a back seat.

Just as I had freshly showered and come out of the hotel bathroom whistling in anticipation, there was a knock at the door. My unbridled excitement got the better of me. I rushed to the door eagerly without caring to put myself in proper attire. Alas, the fact that I was not exactly dressed for the occasion did not discourage the local law enforcement authorities at my door. I was promptly put to task. Even a specially ordered bottle of Stolichnaya smuggled directly from St. Petersburg could not persuade the men at my door to be lenient with me. Vodka induced copywriting is apparently not as widely appreciated around the world as one would like to believe.

The Damp Camp

Part I

It has been a while since I wrote about any interesting anecdote. No, please do not jump into any conclusion. My life has never been more interesting in a while. But wives, cellphones and writing do not always go together. Remember, all my past posts have always been written when events have turned such that the former two were away from earshot. But I do not blame you for never inquiring about that. Why would you?

So, after pondering over it for a little over four years, I thought of finally putting my cellphone away on silent mode and giving writing another chance.

I have never had a fertile imagination. If you are an ardent follower, you will notice that all the stories I have told so far are actually real life incidents with not a figment of imagination involved. Take for instance the bug whose wife was on a business trip in the south of France that I wrote about a while ago. It was the culmination of years of keen observation of bugs' lives that I had undertaken painstakingly. I can tell you with certainty that it is not an easy job to generally pick a topic such as that and immediately conjure up an interesting story out of nowhere. 

The idea behind apprising you of all these important facts is to prepare you for the story at hand and to assure you that the events that I am going to narrate to you took place in their entirety. Not a figment of imagination involved!

This took place around autumn last year. I had been working very hard for months without taking a break. My tiring nerves were giving away and I was beginning to get too restless even at home. Our three year old retriever would jump around the moment I would reach home from work expecting me to throw a ball or two in the lawn to fetch, but I would rarely be in my elements to comply. The keenly observant better half took no time to notice my diminished vigor and as usual, this effected her own usually calm demeanor. She started cooking the best of meals and mixing the old cocktails that used to do the trick. But no luck this time.

One evening, after I got back home, the wife appeared to be unusually radiant. She had prepared a delicious looking meal and I could notice a spring in her steps when she went to fetch the decanter. The animal, with its vigorously wagging tail and unusual panting looked quite worked up as well. There was excitement in the environs. After dinner I could no longer contain my curiosity and inquired about her designs behind the proceedings of the evening that had equally enlivened man and beast. That is when she unveiled her carefully crafted plans. It was no ordinary plan.

While I was away visiting unsuspecting customers door to door selling insurance plans during the day, the wife had been devising plans to distract me from the mundane and get me back to my normal self. She had left no stone unturned is what she divulged to me later. In her relentless pursuit for answers, she had bumped into this innocent looking brochure about the adventure possibilities in the wilderness and since then there was no looking back.

It was no mere jungle trip that she had in mind. It involved a procedure called camping. Now, you may not be familiar with such undertakings if you do not have an enterprising spouse or friends, so I am going to disclose a few details for you to paint a good mental picture before we proceed with the story at hand. The idea behind camping is to go back in time and explore how the neanderthal lived in the forest except that you carry processed food, mineral water and a tent to sleep in. When you have a meticulous spouse, you also end up maintaining fifteen different well meaning shopping lists and making twenty five completely harmless trips to the supermarket, pharmacy, gas station, orthodontist, pet care center and a few other important places before you can confirm that you are all set for the neanderthal experience. By that time, you would have already had so many out of body experiences that you may question the camping experience in the first place. But I did manage to hold on to my nerves and give camping a shot.

Finally, after all the running around and stocking the automobile with four and a half quintals of bare essentials, we set off for the adventure, beast in tow.

Neanderthal Man

Going Solo

Friday morning my career at the Punjab Electricity Board was cut short by a short fuse. I was stress testing an assumption of the endurance of a particularly high voltage electricity line and unfortunately the fuse gave way landing me in the current situation.

Post my masters in bizarre assumptions (sometimes also popularly called MBA), I was trying to find the right job that would enable me apply my education to a good degree. I thought the assumption testing job at the PEB would provide me the right platform. I was not entirely wrong. The job involved testing endurance of human tolerance to high voltage electricity. Basically what I had to do was to frenetically search for human lab testing targets and generally subject them through increasing levels of higher voltage step by step. If they gave away earlier on, we would let them go, else we would subject them to further torture until they agreed to pay us to stop the torture. Quite an interesting job for a person of my qualification, I thought. But while I was at it, I was subjected to other assumption stress tests back in the home front leading to oversights at work.

In a nutshell, Friday morning I found myself in a situation where I had a week of unplanned spare time. Trying to avoid facing reality and undertake a reality check on myself, I considered escaping to the Himalayas for a few days. After a frenetic two hours of rushing through shops and travel agents at Connaught Place or thereabout in New Delhi, I had my hands full with flight tickets and two polythene packets of winter clothing. I was all set for an impromptu trip to Leh - all alone. No hotel reservations, no real plans of visiting any place in particular, the thrill of the trip made me happy for a while. An unhappy wife notwithstanding, I was set for a Monday morning flight from terminal three.

I landed in Leh at 10 in the morning and hailed a cab asking the driver to take me to any random hotel that had a decent room available for a few nights. He probably mistook me for a student and brought me to a dingy place with two narrow beds placed side by side. I was up for adventure, but I was not prepared for this. I let him know as much and he upgraded me to another hotel which had breakfast and hot water on demand. The place suited me and a quick bargain later, I dumped by bag in a room with a strong odor of cigarette smoke. After a quick bath, I found myself walking on the empty afternoon streets of the small town in search of food and a phone booth. I had set out soul searching and what I landed was tom yum soup and a yak cheese pizza. After 15 hours without food, I chose not to complain much.

Pangong lake is a special place in the Himalayas. It is the highest salt water lake in the world and has a special calming effect on anyone visiting it. I wanted to go there the next day, but since it was a long 4 hours drive and back from the lake I did not want to do that alone. Hitchhiking was an option, but since I was in Leh for only a few days, I did not want to risk being stranded on the road early in the morning with nobody willing to accommodate me. After speaking to a few travel agents, I found a group of people of mixed nationalities looking for another traveler. So, I fit in well. The trip was to start early at 6 on the morning.

I went to bed early and decided not to set an alarm. As often is the case with me, I naturally woke up at 15 minutes to 6. I hurriedly brushed my teeth and came out of the bathroom to get ready quickly. There was not much to get ready anyway. I had packed by bags before going to sleep. When I opened the door to ask for the supply of hot water, I soon realized it was quite dark for 6 AM. I rechecked the watch and realized to my amazement that it was 12:15 AM. I was only holding the watch upside down the first time. The false start left me with freshly brushed teeth and 5 more hours to sleep.  

We started for Pangong at 6:30 and after a long bumpy non-stop drive of 4 hours with breathtaking views, the serene lake welcomed us. I left my fellow passengers behind for a long walk along the lake. There were not too many tourists and I soon found for myself an isolated spot next to a few seagulls. The sound of the lapping water soothed my frail nerves and I had almost dozed off when a growling sound woke me up. I realized it was my own stomach. I took the long walk back and helped myself with noodles from one of the makeshift restaurants by the side of the lake. Two hours later, we started the drive back.

After three days in Leh all by myself, I realized the importance of catering to my need of silence and loneliness. In the last 3 days, I would have barely uttered more than 15 sentences and spent 10 minutes with another human being – if you do not include the 8 hours of drive to Pangong. The process of detoxification is almost done, I guess and I am ready to be toxicated again. When you are at 4500m above sea level and heading south, you have only downhill to go, I guess.

What Happened in Vegas

I had found myself stuck in a hotel room with nothing interesting to do. It was drizzling outside and the only solace was internet access and a hot mug of coffee. I had friends in the United States of America, but in this business trip to Seattle, everyone seemed to be inaccessible even for a short chat. Being the lazy bum that I am, I preferred to stay indoors instead of loitering around in coffee shops or bars.

I had just hit upon an interesting website and started to unleash the mouse when the phone rang. It was late evening and the inactivity of the entire day had made me a little lethargic. The ringing phone pumped me up with the required stimuli. I acted as anyone presented with similar circumstances would do. I picked up the phone receiver and enquired “hello?”.

The course of events that followed was life changing under the given circumstances. Here I was lying inactive in a single hotel room completely hopeless of anything interesting to happen in life, and the very next moment I get a phone call from a friend who is equally hopeless in the other coast of the country. The phone call was from a friend in New York who was dying for some action. But unlike me, he had a plan for the action. He proposed Vegas.

Now, I am sure anyone reading this piece will be clueless about the term “Vegas” and so for the benefit of those, I shall embark upon a brief introduction of the same. “Vegas” can mean different things to different people depending (a) on what category of individual you belong to and (b) what kind of situation you are in when you are subjected to “Vegas”. People of a jovial kind with an open mind usually react to Vegas in a very normal manner. The reaction they exhibit when subjected to Vegas can best be described as “homing”. They react to Vegas as if it was always meant to be and they, sort of, naturalize to the environment. However, I know of another kind of individual whose reaction can be categorized as “shocked”. The reaction that one exhibits also depends on the circumstances under which one is exposed to Vegas. For someone who is feeling the blues, Vegas can bring about the required soothing of the sensory nerves whereas for someone who is already in an ecstatic state of mind, Vegas can push him beyond the edges. Whichever be the case, it is widely advised to let that what happens in Vegas stay in Vegas. So, I shall refrain from elaborating further and only focus on the story at hand.

My friend proposed that we treat ourselves to Vegas therapy and also presented with a detailed plan of action. Being in Seattle, I was to board a two and a half hours’ flight to Vegas on Friday. He would already be present on ground zero with shelter, food and equipment ready. We would formally inaugurate our binge exactly at 9-30 Friday evening once we had made ourselves comfortable with the environs. For the rest, we would let nature take its own course. The plan looked perfect on paper and there was no reason why it would not work in practice. We both were equally excited and were eagerly waiting for the D-day.

The D-day finally arrived and I reached the airport on time. As planned, I gave a phone call to enquire about by friend’s exact co-ordinates inside the airport. Soon, we were zooming on our way to the hotel room that my friend had carefully chosen. After necessary ablutions and intake of food, we set ourselves for the nocturnal safari.

We left no club unattended, no hotel unexplored, no casino ungambled. We set the streets afire, painted the town red, so to say. We had started in our best ironed suits and by now the creases were starting to wear out. Such was our dedication to let the demon loose. It was around 2 in the night and the novelty of the place was starting to diminish. Little did we realize that the best was yet to come.

In our feverish excitement, we had overlooked the sign that read “Rhino Ride” on a huge billboard with an arrow pointing north. There was a bright light glowing on another sign further down the road north which probably was the place of action. Now, in my extensive career as a wildlife enthusiast, I had had the opportunity to ride a wide variety of beasts starting from the usual suspects like horses and mules to the more exotic ones like the pigmy hog and the South American iguana. Somehow I had missed the rhino, one horned or not, I do not care. This one really looked appealing, something not to be missed. I was in full form and if remember it right, I felt a slight shiver down my spine - out of excitement. My friend was almost trembling with fervor. I had to steady his steering wheel to keep the car on the road. Soon we reached the spot of action.

On enquiring the person standing guard, we were informed that it cost 20 dollars a ride. I was pleasantly surprised at the affordability of the thing and was already preparing myself for at least half a dozen such rides. My friend flashed two crisp hundred dollar bills and requested advance booking for 10 rides. We both were sweating from excitement as we entered the den. The heart was beating at an accelerated rate.

In ten minutes life had changed for us. Everything that happened seemed like a distant dream that could always happen to others and never to us. We came out almost in a trance. Our backs were broken. Riding a one-horned rhino is one thing, having a fully grown rhino ride on your own back is quite another!

The Bug from Xanadu

He was trying to climb the tree twig, the bug from Xanadu. Now, any layman when confronted with the question of imagining a bug would jump to the conclusion that the said bug is creepy, crawly - probably with an odious smell which should be thrashed at sight with the nearest newspaper retrievable. They generally lack personality and are not easily distinguishable when appearing in groups. Not our Mr. Bug though. Presently, he resumed the climbing.

Mr. Bug was a very clever exception to the usual bug that you encounter in daily life. He had an imposing appearance as well to go with his mental acumen. He was the proud possessor of a well-defined potbelly and a smooth rounded back which was very appropriately green in color with clear black spots to add glamour. The finely chiseled antennas went well with the velvety smooth tail all of which used to twitch involuntarily whenever Mr. Bug was in deep thought. Most of you would never have encountered a bug with a tail in your ordinary lifetime, but then most of you would not have encountered a bug in deep thought either.

Mr. Bug was happily settled in a small grapevine somewhere in the south of France in a town called Xanadu whose exact location could not be determined at the time of writing the story. He lived with his small family. He had an equally gorgeous wife and five pretty children. In the bug’s world it is relatively conservative to have only five children but our Mr. Bug did not want to devote all his time in raising children. He had interesting hobbies to pursue.

Among other hobbies like tasting grapes, listening to the occasional music and playing with his children, he had a very weird hobby too. The bug’s life, as it is known to almost everybody, is not quite interesting if you follow the routine. Mr. Bug made it quite interesting for himself by cultivating a hobby of playing the mind game with the spider. He would tantalize the spider pretending to be an innocent victim and just as he would draw close enough to the cobweb to make the spider’s mouth water, we would give the sudden hop and escape. The spider would be left high and dry as they usually say. It was a dangerous hobby though – you are almost playing with your own life. Spiders are dangerous creatures and you never know!

One of those days, when Mrs. Bug was away on a business trip and when the children were busy playing, Mr. Bug spotted a monster of a spider lurking in a well-lit cobweb presumably sunbathing. The fact that it was only a decoy did not take our man on mission to realize in a fraction of a second. The afternoon boredom that had taken its toll on the spirits of Mr. Bug, prompted him to indulge in his favorite game. With a nonchalant look on the face, he approached the cobweb with a gait that you could best describe as casual. The spider was the one who was alarmed. He was also very confused and he almost had the urge to pinch himself to ascertain his good luck. But given the circumstances, he decided not to make any movement and disturb the perfect setting.

Mrs. Bug disturbed the perfect setting. Due to good weather and less competition that particular season, Mrs. Bug’s business trip had got over rather faster than expected. And with a motive to surprise her husband, she made a sudden appearance with a loud animal cry. But as fate would have it and as is almost always the case with women, she apparently had a bad timing. Mr. Bug’s concentration was lapsed if only for a moment and the entire scene was destabilized. The spider grabbed the opportunity and made a lunge at the distracted bait. In the tussle that ensued, our Mr. Bug lost a part of one of his hind limbs and fell deep down from the scene of action. He suffered several bruises in the process and was still trying to regain his wits when his antennas and tail started to quiver. As he was trying to find his way in the unfamiliar landscape he came across a dark cave where he decided to seek shelter till his nerves soothe. As he was lazily making his way into the cave, I could take the titillation no more and with a vigorous sneeze woke up from my deep slumber. Bugs with antennas in the vicinity of a nostril, is the recipe for disaster when it comes to the occasional afternoon nap.

Face-off with the undertaker

PART I

The uninitiated in the field of bestial psychology would typically be emotionally inclined towards a fauna that possesses a timid nature, say, for example the guinea pig or the rabbit. Even a specimen from the bovine genus (in the event that the first two are unavailable) would quite well satisfy the zoic societal need of such a person. However, after careful observation and keen study of animal behavior, in particular their sanitation habits, I have decided that I rather prefer the more aggressive members of the animal kingdom. So much so that I decided to adopt as pet a representative of the particular class. The precise carnivore that I chose was a cat of a rather black hue.

The other members of my family were aghast at the very first meeting. The wife, in particular simply could not come in terms with the idea of sharing the household with a lowly being from the less developed strata of nature. But I was determined and employed all my diplomatic skills to coerce her into welcoming the new member to the family. This was about a year or so ago. So far, so good. What I shall be narrating now and which holds the key to the future unfolding of events is what happened say about a week ago from now, well give or take a day depending on when you are reading the story. It is a true story, mind you.

The cat in question had grown rather fond of the family and I returned the affection in ample quantity. I used to have food with the cat (the cat seated on the floor, of course), used to drive around with her in tow and so on. I am sure you have a bit of an imagination. Well, knowing womankind, probably what would be clear to you too is that the look in the eyes of the wife was of a mildly disapproving nature when witnessing all these activities. The cat was well aware of this feeling of mistrust but I suppose it chose to remain silent keeping in view my relationship with the cynic. Until the fateful Monday evening, that is.

I had fed the little one and carefully tucked her under the warm flannels for a good night’s sleep. With a very approving purr, the pet got into a comfortable position and was almost starting to snort when I left for a glass of milk. Hardly had I taken a gulp when a maddening wild scream of what remotely matched a yell of a cat in distress made me spill the milk all over the place. It was not a yell of a mere cat. It was a yell from the wife, I soon discovered as the events unfolded. Another louder yell followed within a very short interval. This time it was from a cat.

I had just witnessed the tender sight of the little cat warmly settle for a sleep and my heart was filled with affection for the fellow being. In the heat of the moment, what had escaped my mind was that my wife was still busy in the kitchen and very carelessly I had switched off the light in the corridor that leads you from the kitchen to the bedroom. The wife in the mean time had decided that she was done with the daily chore and was beating a retreat towards the bedroom. In doing so, she had to trespass the domain which was currently in the control of the domesticated beast. Probably she trod on an exposed limb of the cat or probably the cat simply took it as an opportunity of revenge I could not say for sure, but the end result was that it did bite on the foot of the person in charge of the household. No wonder she was flustered and she flung the animal towards one of the walls with a mere swing of her left leg. This is when I heard the second yell and to make a long story short, the cat succumbed to the injury sustained in the process.

PART II

Usually in such circumstances, you are unnerved. My composure was shaken a little bit, I admit. But soon common sense took over and the brain resumed its normal functioning. I was left with a very odd combination of commodities to tackle with – a dead cat and a distressed wife. I decided that I could console the wife in due time, but what about the body lying loose. It is not very soothing to the nerve to be caught unaware in the company of a dead body in the middle of the night. The body would soon putrefy and there would be abominable smell in the environs before you realize. The wise thing to do in such situations was to give the body the burial it so well deserved. I set off on mission straightaway.

The graveyard was a quiet place about ten minutes drive from my humble abode. There was an eerie chilliness in the air. I started looking for the undertaker as soon as I disembarked from the car. I was looking in the long direction of the graves in the hope of human company meeting the eye. Precisely at that moment there was light tap on my shoulders from the behind. I was startled a little bit. On turning quickly, the eye was presented with a rather peculiar looking personality. He had long uncombed hair and he had a distinctly smaller left eye. He had numerous scars on the face too - the exact number of which I cannot recollect at the moment. He gave me a rather suspicious look.

“Trouble?”, asked the eccentric undertaker.

“None whatsoever. Just wanted your help in a little burial”, I replied.

“Right now?”.

“Yes, right away.”

“So there is trouble”, he said with a satisfied smirk.

In the middle of the night if you come up with burial requests to unknown undertakers with no accompanying crowd of wailing females and grave males, I suppose trouble is the usual suspect. His price was a thousand for the burial and another thousand for keeping quiet about the ceremony thereafter. I have him a surprised look.

On being enquired about the body in question, I led him towards the car. Now it was his turn to give the surprised look. So, after getting even in the department of surprised looks, he let me know that he refused to bury anything other than human remains in his esteemed graveyard.

After what seemed to me an hour’s persuasion coupled with a significant increment of his remuneration for the seemingly simple ritual, he finally gave in. With utmost respect for the deceased, he proceeded to retrieve the mortal remains of the feline lying numb in the back seat of the car. Now, most of you who are in the habit of retrieving mortal remains of domesticated fauna from back seats of cars would vouch for the fact that it is indeed a very innocuous business. You hardly sustain a scratch on the back of your hand in the process. This was precisely the anticipation on the mind of the unsuspecting undertaker. But he was in for the shock of his life. There was a hideous cry of shock and torment to be heard in the surroundings in the following moment. No only did he sustain a mere scratch on the back of his hand but an entire cube of flesh was severed from his index finger with a simple flick of the dead cat’s lower jaw. Now, you are probably wondering what modern machinery would have propelled the lower jaw of a dead cat to cause such a heinous injury on the simple-minded undertaker. You could not be more naïve.

The cat in question was not dead in the first place. It was just rendered unconscious owing to the impact on the hind quarters of its head that it sustained when slammed against the wall by the wife. It must also have lost a considerable portion of its memory in the process, I could not say for sure. But what could be said for sure was that the said graveyard was no more a safe place for a simple citizen who is entangled with a deceptively dead cat and a red-faced undertaker with an injured index finger. As the cat made a roar of a meow and was starting to make a quick exit from the spot of crime and as the simmering undertaker impulsively started to follow the cat, me being the wisest one quickly twisted the car key in its rightful socket and made good my own escape. Undertakers and cats are what I have been trying to avoid from that fateful night.