The Fable of Greek Bundar

The problem with people in the city was that, they could never really pronounce Greek Bandar as Bandar, instead the hoi polloi, in a moment of destruction of the umbillical cord, pronounced it the same way as the rich Goras and the Kalas of Babudom said. Greek Bundar or the greek monkey. No one paid attention to the blind beggar man in the corner of Greek Bundar, asking for alms from the people walking by. He could have hardly known that, like him, they were poor, only, some cosmic force kept them rich. And yes off course powerful, powerful beyond their own imagination. And greek bundar, as the thirtieth mayor of Gomorrah had named it, far from the city, stood, allowing ships to enter, fart out their cargos in the most unfashionable manner, and leave.
Okay so, if you stand near Greek Bundar, you would really like to see a monkey. A monkey. Only one.but not many. But you could see many. So many. So many of them. The man, who worked around wearing the finest of silk suits, or the coolie, who carried the bloody load in his head, wearing that bright rich coolie uniform, distinctly blue cursing under his breathe. Yes, he could not curse out loud. That would only mean a fine flogging from the rakhwalas of the Greek Bundar. The joke goes, they were the bundars.the original ones. The monkeys who made the men work. And the joke was crude. Vulgar. Without rhyme or reason. And that was the existence of Greek Bundar. No rhyme or no reason.
And the greek bundar, came into the news when our dear old neighbours Hindustan or Mera Bharat Mahan and Pakistan were fighting a bitter war. It was attacked ala Pearl Harbour style and sustained quiet a damage. The statues of Socrates Das was damaged. And Gomorrah raised a hue and cry, till both the countries paid Gomorrah enough to keep quiet. The reason still unknown to me or any other of the populace.
I remember, if I do remember correctly, walking around Greek Bundar once.yes. why? I don’t remember that. Maybe because I had a ship to catch. That was the only time, I had come to Greek Bundar.
The satyrs of greek bundar, yes the coolies and their brethren in equal remuneration and class often mingled around the only Bacchus shop in the bundar area. there were other wine shops in and around Gomorrah, but, the distance and the tiredness of their feet stopped them from venturing further into the city. They were trapped. They were actually chained. By their own stupid thoughts. The coolies for the night, derived pleasure out of unwarranted debauchery filled with so called whores and nacchnewalis. Maybe this could have ended. Amicably. But it always ended with someone getting injured or getting killed. They had wives or mistresses to fuck, yes, the word sounds harsh, but you can’t expect satyrs to be eloquent lovers when the whole day under the sadist suns, under their gora maliks, they worked, they worked hard, sweated even their piss out of their bodies, and at night, as the sea, the fabled babylon sea caressed their bodies, they slept. Off course, after fucking their wives or mistresses. Yes, to each his own.
And among this lived imaginary Incubus and the Lamias. Their job was to suck bloods. And they did it in a fashion that even the old moneylender Cheapus Moneylender would blush at the style and execution. But one saw them and one saw them just before they died. And among it also left the harangued Centaur, the merciless Vanars of the tall magnificent buildings, the self-styled asuras and danavas of the Greek Bundar Trade Buildings, the small dwarfs those who worked in the chai stalls, cleaning the cups and plates and the dirt that was what the humans gave them. They scrubbed them, but the dirt just increased. The sunlight bonded them in their own shadows. And their were the Garudas, the dadas of the gullis, the one who would often tease at your mother, wife, sister, girlfriends and others, maybe anyone related to you, the khepris who came all the way from far away Pharaoh land, the vampyres, or the gypsies of distant romania, and there were so many more, more and more, all hidden in the stomach of Greek bundar, so that they could not shit and fart in the city and make it dirty. This was the most exonerated example of keeping migrants at bay. And everyday through ships and trawlers and often in boats, came in search of fortune, but only to meet misfortune, as the incessant begging of the blind beggar who sat under the newly repaired statue of Socrates Das, the plan of creating another statue put on hold by the Bundar Trust, as they felt it would only create a unwarranted nuisance, and destroy the transience of Socrates Das, who ever since the inception of the bundar stood so solemnly and peacefully and watched over the whole of Gomorrah, unlike some other statues, that of Nadugopal Satapathy, who started the first fast food center or Aristaeus Mukherjee, who represented the then India/Pakistan/ Gomorrah combined Kabaddi team in 1900 Pharish all-impics, or even Vijaya Thepe Gokhale, the first winner of fillum-fare award, under whose all-gracing statue, new comers bask, often in drug induced glory, laughing even though when some director has fucked them and thrown them out of the movie, as a spotboy or a darwan throws her out of the fillum city, as she becomes a desitute and then a prostitute till forty and again back to square one. The dumb who sees this all keeps quiet. Nothing to say actually. The deaf who hears it all, too keep quiet, the blind who sees it all, pretends he has seen nothing. and another car stops in front of Fillum city, a starlet’s daughter is going to do a movie, and the hyenas all look at her like carrion, since she is their new food, unfit for consumption of the ordinary, the very very ordinary. And they pounch upon. Rip her flesh, claw her and then leave her.
Greek bundar, according to one american channel, the one that now rules the world, kicking out Turner Buddah and CNN said that, Greek Port, was the largest port unofficially, since Gomorrah was still not accepted by UN as a city-state, which broke away from his mother, out of jealousy, out a rage, cocaine driven anger, yes. it was big enough to be a country, yet it wasn’t. It was a city-state since the founder, who called him Socrates Das, lover of greek theories and mysteries and mythologies. It was a amicable breakup. Their were no rapes, there were no murders or riots. The city just broke out. Everything was greek to everybody. Eveybody, yes, the hoi polloi- which included the coolies of Greek Bunder, could never imagine what was happening. Yes, they had their stomach, the intestines, the livers and other equally important things to take care of. This was the end, somewhere Morrison sang, and when Bob Dylan came, yes he visited the raped and famished jhopris and kholis of Greek bundar, with the smiling mayor Arisateus Bandhopadhay and the deputy Mayor Nero Norottom Ghosh.
And to the illiterate was this person, geeky and gawky, with a nose good enough to be a cloacal aperture, with hairs representing that of Shambhu Pagla near the Burrah Babu’s office, he sang to them, asking for help, for the tsunami victims in Bangladesh. And old bald dadu, he wiped his tears. He could no say that he belonged to Jessore in Bangladesh.The satyrs they hardly understood. But they gave. When a gora asked, you always gave. When they asked, they were refused. It was the norm. Even the blind beggar gave. Yes, he gave.
And the very moment this spectacular disciple of Apollo left, the satyrs were rounded up and kicked back to their nests. Enough ! one of the guards would shout. Now back. !. the satyrs would be back. No bacchus for today. Maybe the next day. They would speak in hush voices. One Sunday gone wasted by a duffer who sang knocking on heaven’s door. One bloody Bundar who came halfway from the world. and someone sniggered. Yes this is why, it is greek bundar.

So here I am, continuosly talking about some coolies in Greek Bundar, but mainly I want to now concentrate on two or rather three characters in and around Greek Bundar. The blind beggar, old bald dadu and one fanatical garuda who, well, wanted to assassinate the statesman of Gomorrah. The highest ruler of Gomorrah. Yes, garuda, the mythical creature from the hindu mythology, was actually the illegitimate son of the statesman Darius Bombaywala. How do I know? He was my best-mate in school and college. I know many a things which you will know as well. It will take time, it will definitely take time, but the process will be slow. Since I am slow.
And his creation was nothing but a story in itself. Yes, it was. Since Darius Bombaywala came from Bombai, the fabled city of hindustan, the story would be one long and boring. He belonged to a family of rich merchants. They settled in this place, Gomorrah, which at that time was open to one and all, so that it could build and it did build. And darius bombaywala as he grew, became enticed by a women, who belonged to the garuda clan. The clan that was one of the original inhabitants of the city-state. Yes. but marriage was impossible. Since Darius was already engaged to a rich parsi dikra, it was impossible. The alliance would break the harmony of gomorrah. Everyone knew. No one would talk. No one. In parties, that you would visit, humans would mingle with Garuda, but no one would talk about the love story. Minerva, fiancee of Darius, would sip a bloody mary and speak to her friends, often crying suddenly, just like the rain hitting the Aryan Gardens, or laughing uncontrollaby at the jokes of Videshkumar Narriatam, a former comedy superstar from South India, again from India,whose pronunciation of choot really was the talk of Sunday breakfast and brunch among the superriches and the pms-ing bitches. So this was the situation. That time. long time back. And among this, Darius made love to Vinata, Garudas mother. And that time, there were enough precautions. There must not be a child. But the semen and the eggs and the other remaining assorted things helped the cause, just like the formation of Gomorrah, when everyone came together, and just pulled out Gomorrah, the same way Darius, impregnated Vinata, one funny day. Funny, because, that was all fool’s day, celebrated by the Jokers. And then all hell broke loose. Okay, I have to be precise, because, things won’t be clear. Darius, Vinata and Minerva, and others, they were all part of the renaissance of the period that brought out Gomorrah that was it. and the story I am telling, I am indebted to them. Yes. and to many others. Lots. My friend Garuda too. And someone called Suyasha. Yes, you will know. Everything. just be patience. Relax.

And in the jazz club festival in dear Bombai, which the 16 year old Darius attended, he heard his father, the famous Xerxes Bombaywala was a patron about something called Gomorrah. And in this same place, he met the charming Minerva. The 16 year old, bony and skeletal, suddenly felt the gush of manhood overpowering him and yes he was in love. That was bombai. And Gomorrah had its first Jazz festival. And blues too, included. It was also Darius’s 25th birthday. The khepri dancers had just gone overboard. Guthrie Garwan was the next. Minerva was there too. During partition, as a group of fundamentally flawed people fought over India and Pakistan, a group, not big, quietly shifted to Gomorrah. When question of ascension came, Gomorrah refused to be the part of anything, instead, as I said it cloaked itself in a paste of old world flavour, spicy and not what the world would see or know. A city-state. As people killed each other in the bony streets of amritsar, as the nubile young girls got raped in the trains coming from bothways, darius and Xerxes, entered their new Bungalow in gomorrah, which one would say, that time was called Abraham Villa. But it was that time, and I speak of the time, when I wasn’t even born, nor was Gaduda, nor did Sohrab was born. They were parsis, and I was a bengali. And the bengali intellectual class, stooped down in Gomorrah, the invitation by the Dadabhai Naoroji and Subhash Chandra Bose too tempting. Yes, it was. Subhash Chandra was back. Some said he was impostor, some said he had to be handed to the britishers and the um-riccans. He played it safe. He came to gomorrah and with other theorists, he quickly descended or maybe ascended to build the place called Gomorrah. And under his mentorship did Darius grew and became the third statesman of Gomorrah. Subhas died soon after, over seeing the peaceful end of the Vampyr war, the inclusion of the centaurs in mainstream gomorrah society and also declaring griffins as national herald of Gomorrah. And this was Gomorrah, Sodom happened much later. Much later. When I was young. Sodom happened. And we all were young, the fourth generation of Gomorrah. And along with us, Socrates Das, great grandson of the founder Socrates Das we embarked on a journey to change the face of this place. Out of curiosity, what change was like and also out of a moral challenge to change to this place.
And among us was a guy who we called Fey Cavalera, who was an orphan shipwrecked at Greek Bundar. He was found by my father, in one of his many trips for fishing. Where he came from, we could hardly guess. And without anytime to waste, he became the fourth generation fo Gomorrah. My brother. My friend. Yes. and that was 1976. He was six years old. I was two years old. And Gaduda was three. We all went to the same school. Yes, even Suyasha, but she started three years later. And today is 2009. I am thirty-five. Gaduda is missing, he is leading the separatist movement from Sodom, Fey is dead, Sohrab looks after the business of the Darius Bombaywala and sons and the last one, yes Suyasha, I don’t know where she is too. My ship approaches Greek Bundar. I know my entire family will be there. The prodigal son is coming back. He is coming back with his head held high. People will assume I know nothing. yet, all this years when I left Gomorrah to satisfy my untolerable ego after the death of Fey, I know everything. even about the so called bob dylan clone that Gomorrah have produced out of its fecund womb, desparate in a sense of longingness, or the movie business that is thriving in Hulliwood, started suddenly by the arrival of one Francis Fjord Xavier Cupola all the way from um-ricca, the casino and gambling bordellos, styled after las vegas and named aptly as Lush Bogus, the overflowing glasses of scotch and martinis, the trinkling sign of the roulette machine, the naked showgirls. Gomorrah was suppose to be different. It turned out to be just a clone. A bad one. And I was back. I could smell Greek Bundar now. And I just remembered Suyasha.

We often came here, Greek Bundar on Sundays, when school would be closed and it would mean that we could roam around the whole day. Aryan Gardens would be out of bound for children like us, since on Sundays it was overtaken by lovers and loosers alike. At one bench, you could see cuddling puppies while in another bench you could see crying larks, lamenting the loss of their love. And in our hero cycles, very famous, now one of the largest cycle producers in this planet, we would move around, first coming to Bhangra Ice-cream wallas, where Suyasha and I would fight over the rainbow flavour, and then, see the range of cars in statesman villa, going to Garudapara to call Garuda and eat khicdhi and dimbhaja, and alubhaja from Vinny aunty, and then heading straight to Greek Bundar, as Suyasha fed the blind beggar, the food she carried in the box. We would sit under crow-shit stained statue of the great Socrates Das, forgotten by the people of Gomorrah and see the ships coming and leaving the port.
“I will leave one day.” I used to say.
Suyasha would laugh. Garuda would get angry and flap his wings. “ I am not allowed to leave.”
“I will take you.” I use to say. Somewhat with a sense of ferocity. Since, they were my friends, my sole cause of existence at that time.
But I did not realize that the outer world had shunned them. The garudas, the vampyres, the wolves and others. I was young. I was fool. Or rather in plain words I was just ignorant to the issue. Or maybe, it wasn’t such a big political issue at all. Viet war had just ended. The scars were still healing. So, why was Garuda not allowed to venture into the world, or why he never had a father, never bothered me. he was my friend, as it was, without the perfunctory clauses.
And we use to stay there, relax till Fey came on his cycle dragging me home and making me complete my homework, as at night, some bombai or dilli uncle came, new arrivals to gomorrah, talking to my father about the problems of the closed economy, the entry of bangals in bengal after the 71 war, or the hindu-muslim riots, the lady called indira gandhi, some calling her, iron-willed, some calling her son sanjay a madman, who was making nasbandhi compulsory, and there were thousands of stories, thousands, millions, maybe, India was a story that was millions, that was billions, I use to listen, fey use to do his homework, till my mother tucked me into bed. As I slept quietly on the bed, I use to see the poster of Che Guevara, which our mamaji got us from Kalkatta,fey being a fanatical admirer of him. I looked into the eyes of che. He looked stoic. My undeveloped mind yet to understand the meaningfulness of revolution. He was dead. I knew that, shot by the capitalistic forces in the jungles of Bolivia as he ranted “ shoot coward you are only going to kill a man.” I could hear Fey saying the same thing at school, when bullies would hit him. “Hit me coward, you are only going to beat a man.” Yes, Fey got the thrashing of his life when he stole money from father’s purse to watch a movie based on Che.
And you might wonder why I am floudering on the subject of Suyasha. I am afraid, plain afraid to bring it up. she was always an enigma, even now,she was fate’s child, favourite one I guess, and she was something, which no man would ever no. She was the divine incarnation of some God, or maybe she was born of some god. The DNA, and I would, even now not sure what she was. Our friendship was more of actions, than of talks. We did things together and spoke very less. That doesn’t mean we spoke really less. We did speak. Sometimes, we just could not hardly understand each other. Yes, there were periods, like when I said I loved her. She responded by a harsh fuck off. I was heartbroken. She said sorry.and then suddenly we were a couple, planning to settle down. And then Fey died in Bolivia, going there much against my father’s wishes, and Garuda attempted to murder the statesman Darius Bombaywala, and later joining the rebels in Sodom. Sodom, was newly made, for proper administration by the 2nd statesman Darshonik Plato but it soon became a problem, and rebels gathered their. Talks of separatism broke out. And Garuda soon became distant. So did my relation to Suyasha, a sudden jerk of the hand and the tie broke. I told my father about my decision to leave Gomorrah. Fey;s death had broken him. he agreed. And for sixteen years, I roamed around the world, learning its way and lamenting that Gomorrah was just the same. I though of going to Parish or rather straight to Um-ricca or maybe Lundon, the way our Panjabi driver use to pronounce them. I came to greek bundar before I left, visiting each and every place. And the news had come, Indira’s son Rajiv was blown to pieces by Tamils. And that same day, Minerva’s closet lover, yes, wife of Statesman Darius, mother of Sohrab,my classmate, Videshkumar Nariattam had committed suicide. I left, I got the first plane out of Gomorrah. At thirty thousand feet, high in the sky, I suddenly felt lonely, strangulated by an unseen forces, the airhostesses coming to my rescue, but I thought fuck it, who would rescue me, rescue the one who could be rescued, not me. I am dead and gone. I had thought I would not survive. But I did. among the bullets, among the smiles of tigers, among sharks, among non-existence monsters, among assassins with silver guns, among the femme fatals. I am thirty five. Soon on dec 31st I shall be thirty six. And I am here in Gomorrah. There is my family. Mom and dad, my sisters Ayesha and Athena, their husbands and children, Sohrab with his family, and among them I try and look distinctly for Garuda and Fey and Suyasha. I found no one. And even after sixteen years I am still alone. The realization should have hit me hard. but it only makes me smile. I come down. They all hug me. the fable of greek bundar could have ended but it doesn’t. its just the start.

And a party was organised. A party for me. a party for the homecoming. A party for the return. And among the mortals, my ghostly remains moved around, smiling, the smile eternally glued on my broken face, my lackdaisical heart, the stiff body. I moved. I got introduced to a many. More than many I could remember. I was out of place. The champagne tasted nothing but bottled piss, the hollow laughter just made me more insane, the gossip patted me on my back, pulling me back, as I tried a way to find my way back, back from the maze, back to somewhere where I could give peace a fuck, let her come in throes of bitter orgasm, so that even I could come, come really hard, everything would be satiated, in a moment of maniacal exaggeration. And suddenly I found my niece, the lovely 15 year Roshni, tugging me towards a crowd. I dreaded. Yes, it was another introduction. And just another introduction that would again propel me towards my self-pompous obscurity, yes yet again.
For a while, I had always felt that my emotions were attenuated, yes they were. The vigour had long gone. Impotency had crept in. And sadly, there was no viagra to boost the emotions in a man. which would make the man feel that indeed he was alive, indeed he was kicking in the air, he was breathing hard, really very hard, just like a new born took the first mug of pure oxygen in his system.
And as I met Ankita Aurora Sen, grand-daughter of Lady Rebecca Sen, among animals, for once did I felt, I was rescued. But then again, I was wrong. There was only person who could rescue me. and she was herself lost.
“You have travelled the world.” Ankita asked me. in her Kanjeevaram, she looked like a snake-goddess, her eyes neatly kohl marked, so seductive, dense like a rainforest, and among it, you could always take care about dangerous bipeds. Her lips, soft and succulent and yet demanding, like a gravitational force, which I felt for the first time, as I had taken her to Greek Bundar for a nostalgic trip. I had kissed her. For now, we sat in the bar, the band, not my favourite, playing popular music, while family members from both sides looked at us, hoping that the match would work. The wild need to be tamed and Ankita was the perfect hunterwali, who could whip me to my senses. My mother told me that my father was always making this match. Hardly did it matter that, Ankita was ten years my junior. Twenty five and grand-daughter of the powerful matriachal Sen family.
“Can’t you dance?” she asked me. yes, I could. But not with you.
“No.” I said. Most of the questions she asked me till now was about my days of vagabond-ism. Yet I could feel she had this tendril eagerness to know more about me. maybe she was haunted by me. or rather, she was repelled by my physical ugliness. And yes she was beautiful. and when it comes for a beautiful person to love someone ugly, the inner volcanoes always rebeled since there could be no love at all. It was an act of deliberation.
“Oh. I wanted to dance.”
“You can dance with anyone you like.” I said.
“Dida won’t like it.” Ankita said. her voice was sullen. The Phillaharmonic Orchestra was playing Nights In White Satin. I turned around and saw Ankita’s Dida, Mrs. Rebecca Sen, nursing a daiquiri speaking to Lady Minerva and my mother. At eighty she still was going strong, the strength hidden behind those white locks of hair, the practised smiles, the small nods of her head, the wave of her hands alerting everyone in the party. Yes, even Bombaywala clan, Sen’s were enough powerful to throw him out of the statesmanship. Only because Rebecca Sen lost his only son in a freak accident in a glider tournament in the Lot Mountains, that she provided her unconditional support to Darius Bombaywala.
“Oh. I can talk to her if you want.”
“Please don’t. You don’t know what you are talking about.”
“I know exactly, what I am talking about. I can see you are not happy in my company. I can’t say the same thing about you. I am hardly in here. I am blanked. I can only feel the song caressing me, I can hear the people laughing, I can even see your face, rest, I am not aware, the inner turmoils, if you really want me to be precise.”
She smiled.
“Are you always this complex or is it because of me.”
“My elder brother Fey use to often say in some of his letters, complexity is not something which we should don..”
“You mean wear it and pretend you are complex. No I can smell you are complex. Dida was telling me that you left Gomorrah when you were twenty.”
“And?”
“Nothing. so we can expect a bit of hostility from you, it will take time for you to settle down.”
I smiled this time.settle down. Not possible I guess. Not possible for the mighty me. Yes, me. I was bloody hostile to every bloody brazen thing that was happening here. I was back. But yet I felt I was yet to arrive. I was still in my ship in the sea, seeing the albatross dancing in the sky with the clouds.
“Don’t you have any friends?” Ankita said taking the bloody mary from the bar.
No, I don’t. They are lost. Lost in some dark tunnel. They can’t see me, nor can I see them. So we are apart. Very much.
“No. I have lost contact with them. It’s been a while you see.” I said. I couldn’t drink. I don’t know why. I just couldn’t . I shook my head and asked the waiter to leave. Ankita said nothing. she was uncomfortable I knew it well. Even me. But we could hardly help it. it’s like thrusting a big toy into the hand of a kid who has hardly known what a toy is. And in my fifteen years, I have never known what love is. Except once, as I and Suyasha had sat in the Greek Bundar. That was just once. Only once. Never again
“You are lost in a story of your own.” Ankita said.
“Maybe I am.”

The Yakuza and Writerland-I
And he was a yakuza, I had met in the seedy lanes of Yokohama. It was raining incessantly. I was sitting in a small eatery. I was lost there, same way I was lost here, lost with the girl I was going to marry. There were bullets, girls and Yakuza in this story. And this I talk about when the Asian Financial Crisis was at its peak. It was booming. Yes the crisis. It was slicing and hacking people, anyone who was coming in its way. And yes, where was I. Yes, I was having noodles. I saw the man enter.
“May I sit here?” he asked. I nodded. I knew bits and pieces of Japanese.
He ordered the same food as me. and a can of pepsi. Yes, pepsi. See japan was more americanized than the Um-riccans itself. And you or I, everyone knew it. Most Um-riccan superstars kissed japan’s ass more than they kissed Uncle Sam’s. Uncle sam was deluge, yes, diluted form of mass unity. He was well, not clark fable saying frankly my dear , i did gave a damn when I screwed you, or neither was he Martin Luger Queen who said “I have a nightmare not a dream.” And remember Sydney Poignant, when he played the role of the nigger doctor who goes to marry a white chick in the movie Guess Who i am gonna marry?, yes, he was never them, Uncle Sam was more famous In Japan, than in Um-ricca itself. Or rather, Georgie Porgie Dubya Bush, was better now, more famous.
“You a gaijin?” the man asked. The question was sudden. More of a slap on my face.
“I am a tourist.” I said.
“Okay, then I can tell you.” His english was atrociously slow.
“What?”
“I am going to kill somebody.”
I had spend enough time outside Gomorrah, so I knew that there were many madmen and poets,like the blind beggar poet in Greek Bundar, or if you help yourself and go to visit Madan Choksi in Meena bazaar selling his wares to the people,. Meena Bazaar was never called Chor Bazaar and you you always hear the sellers tell fultu item hein bawa, mostly migrants from the poorer states of India losing out to the better off coolies, the turbaned punjabis in a fight to gain decent jobs in the Bundar, the greek Bundar and later doing heavy duty smugglings, stealing from the ships and giving away branded items at throwaway costs. A parallel economy grew. and that was just the small story of Meena Bazaar. There were so many bazaars in India and Gomorrah had borrowed idea from the estranged partner. The black market. The police raided once in two or three months, keeping the looted items to distribute among themselves or send it to storehouses in Sodom. And Fey, yes, I am telling about Fey, he wanted to change the system. Che was born in Fey. The motorcycle diaries could have been re-written. But it wasn’t going to happen like that. Fey was an exception. and exceptions always paid a heavy price. And the yakuza fellow told me about his plan to murder his own wife in this restaurant I was sitting, that day, my mind was full of fey. Fey could have changed him. he wanted to change the world. he wanted Gomorrah to be Gomorrah. He was restless. He was eager. The eager beaver. And the died the death of a dog.
“she screwed him. screwed my own boss. And I am coming from his home. I hacked him to death in front of his wife and daughter. They will all be after me now. But I can’t rest till I kill the bitch. You feel scared.”
I guess I was scared. But I said no.
“Good.” He said. he was eating. maybe the last meal that he was going to have. The other customers in the place, ate at their own pace. Dexterous. I was two months in Japan, yet I could hardly eat with chopsticks.
“And you know Har Ukimur Akami?” the man asked.
“I have read all his works.”
“I will take you there, if I survive. You can tell him my story.”
I nodded.
He ordered milk.
“helps in digestion.”
The place was getting empty. The manager of the place was a nice guy or rather he was afraid of this Yakuza.
“She is always late.” My friend said, maybe I should call him friend. Or maybe he will shoot me, death, and I would lie here bleeding, as no one would rescue me.
“we always fought a lot, but I never felt that she would screw my boss. And for once I did not felt that my boss would screw her. It was so easy. Like leaves in winter falling down, slowly. I was Nara. And now, let’s see what happens to me buddy.”
The wife came alright. They both started quarrelling. I decided to stand outside. I got propositioned by two whores.
“Sorry no Japanese.”
They giggled and left. Yes, girls only giggled at me.
I heard two shots.
“Let’s go.”
I sat in his car.
I felt strange. I could die, since he tells that others were after him. But I wanted to be his chronicler. I wanted.
“she died peacefully. She had no regrets.”
“do you have any regrets now.”
“No, not at all, honour is not a trifle thing. If I had fucked my boss’s wife I would have let my wife kill me. Honour.”
I smiled. And in name of honour, people did all sorts of crazy things, zany kinda things, interesting things. And today I was with a Yakuza.
“Do you believe what I say? You did not saw me killing my wife. You only heard the bullets.”
“ I do.”
“What if she is alive and whatever I told you was a crazy lie or maybe I am not even a Yakuza.?”
“Buy me a breakfast then.”
He laughed and took a right. he cried, a sudden whimsical tear dropped from his eyes, he took a left. Zig-zag, left-right-left-right-left-right-left-right-left-right, the car jerked, other drivers showed us the finger, the finger of common expression of democracy, one bliddy finger, the car’s headlight blinked, the streelights nodded their head in utter shame, the road itched, the road bitched, the bumpers gave the car a wing, and suddenly, as if I was travelling in a vortex, we entered a dark place, surrounded by trees and smelling of strong coffee.
“here you can meet the literary superstars and the literary supervillains, and then, everyone m you ever dream of. But before that, let’s go to murakami. Let’s tell him the story.”
And as we moved, through that lonely stretch of road, where papers flew, where there was a table, and a chair, and a remington typewriter, and I saw, dear old Rushdie typing.
“Midnight’s children, aha, you know, Booker.”
So here I was, in the fantasy lane, coffee, yes, it was there, to keep you awake, and later did I realize that it was a penal colony, a colony for the writers to write.
And kafka was no longer dead, he was writing, the castle. And I saw, Dick, Clarke and Heinlein, waiting for Asimov to come back from the Great Publishers house.
“Do androids dream of electric sheep.” Dick said. the guy waved at him. he waved back
“But why did you brought me here?”
“I told you pal. To meet har ukimur kami.”
A minotaur stood in front of a wooden house, beautiful built, aesthetic, though, it touched your eyes, simple yet just delightful.
And inside, in the leather, we rested our bums, we rested and took a long swig of the hookah. “where is he?”
“no where. He will listen as I will tell.”
And somewhere I felt someone playing a sweet instrument.
“Someone is getting executed here today.”
“who?” I asked.
Such a fable land it was. a fable land for the writers. Come here and write. Harem operated by the muses. And here I was,with a gun toting Yakuza, who killed his wife, just 39 minutes ago, drove his car through a whirlwind traffic and landed me here, through pages of seminal kafka, through bibilical doestovsky, by the help of gogol, and I wished Fey was here, no, not him, maybe I needed a bit of Suyasha, with me.
“Why me?” I asked.
“You ask the correct questions. Why you? actually why not you. yes deliberately, it was you. and I knew you would listen my story, as I would listen yours.”
“But I have nothing to tell.”
“Oh, you do have. Not now, but some years down the line, you will remember this incident, the incident of meeting me, and this colony of writers, all churning out words, one by one, thinking, maybe, but sometimes the process of thinking is overdosed by the process of mesmerizing, you think of nothing else but about the condition you are in. And there are other obstacles and obstructions, and definitely a self-centered ego acting in your place.”
I couldn’t understand what he was saying, but as I sit Ankita in this tea-cafe, I guess I understand now, his total sense of desperation, his need to tell me, even a stranger, but the inner suffocation was to be eradicated, to inhale out the words, to vomit them out. And that night, I listened the story. And maybe Har Ukimur Akami did too. Maybe, but it was he who was getting executed that day, by popular vote, popular demand, by a sense of trust. He was going to be killed. There was no crime, there was no crime at all. And what kind of crime was punished. No crimes were punished. No crimes were done. It was a chain of mass survival. We all are criminals. Yes we all are nothing but pawns of fate. Can I accuse Garuda to be a criminal, when he will kill his father? Can I accuse Fey to be a criminal when he killed a man for self-defense? Can I call myself a criminal, because I am a criminal? Can I call this man, this Yakuza, with whom I am right now sitting and smoking hookah, a criminal? Our minds, extraordinary pieces of junk, makes us to ordinary things, these things, rape,murder, arson, loot, are vague and ordinary. A criminal like be that of intellectual capability, someone who would make you realise your folly, someone who would hug you when you would understand.
And we were at the execution. I saw dickens. He shook hands with the Yakuza. There was dick, but the other three were missing. Orhan Pamuk was crying. He had imagined that he would have to sit on the chair the next.
“ladies and gentleman, since, Mr. Rushdie declined to die, we therefore, by popular vote, popular demand, kill the voice of freedom and expression, Mr. Haruki Murakami.yes, we kill him. he shall die. Our choices are not made, but they are imposed.” It was sheepman.
Yes, he dressed so much like a human. He should have hidden his horns. Yes, it looked ugly, tresspassing on your impression of the man. and I was tired. I needed to sleep.
“and how shall he be killed. Simple and easy. He will be put in this chair, strapped and killed. A easy death and we will wait when he shall die, we will dance around his body. And he deserves this. just like anybody else.”
And two minotaurs placed him on the chair. The sheepman pulled the handle. He was fried. In front of our eyes. And at that same moment, ankita jerked me. I felt I saw Murakami come in front of me, and say, your story is more from over. It has just started.

Yakuza and Writerland-II
Though I scrubbed my face with the towel for the third or fourth time, I felt I still reeked of murder that I saw just now. yes, the murder of Har Ukimur akami. Yakuza asked me to stay for the night. I got the room which was one used by Jaydee Sallinger when he was writing The Man who drowned in the rye.
“I fucking hate them all, I fucking abhor them all, I fucking make them sucka on my dicka, yeah, I fellye that I should be doing something like this, the scumbodies doi theh same thing, and then why can’t I, I will I shall, I must, my fucking school, my fucking friends...”
Yes, that line was quoted in the walls. As I slept, I could see it. and I felt, what were all the writers doing here. Churning out books, churning out food for thought, so that, people will buy the books, and then read it, discuss and argue it over breakfast. Good book or bad book. Sell. Movie rights. Huh huh huh huh. Maybe. Who knew? And the yakuza told me something very important at the breakfast that I was the second non-writer to visit this place, and see and execution, and yes Har Ukimur Akami’s all books were banned. Yes, that was the decision taken by the Bigggg Publisherrrrrr. I nodded as I drank my orange juice.
The yakuza was killing his gun. The gun. The same gun with which he killed his wife last night.
“I guess we should be moving. I have to attend a funeral.”
“whose?”
“Mine.”
I laughed. Yes, the words were filmy, based on the total unfanatical Buddha like attitude of my friend the Yakuza, I decided I could come back here anyday I want, but maybe I was wrong. That was the last time I ever came to this place, because there was this place, I couldn’t find without the help of my friend the Yakuza. We sat in the car. The place was unfamiliar. I saw Orphan Shamuk, still crying, still crying aloud if he has to sit on the electric chair. And Sheepman came and waved us goodbye.
“Don’t forget your story.” He cried, as I felt someone kick our car out of this place.
And we were in the middle of Yokohama traffic. And the same middle fingers, the same expletives hit us with a unrequited vengeance. Where the fuck were you all? Somewhere where I was dreaming. I wanted to scream back.

And we walked towards the funeral ground. I knew it was funeral of the Yakuza Boss. And he was going. He had to die honourably. He stood in the line, and paid his respect. I did the same. and the others, in their cold tuxedos and sunglasses hardly understood who I was? maybe his doppleganger, maybe his friend, no I couldnot claim that I was his friend. There had to be a break from this, a release and the release was coming soon.
The funeral ended as the monk chanted the last few words from the holy text.

The cemetary ground was cold. A sudden cloak of dampness had filled it in. Thousands of incense stick was burning.
“I am going to smell good when I die.” The yakuza said.
And the others, the zombies in black took out their guns. The shots were being fired. I stood there seeing what was happening, and the happening was nothing but surreal, instead of the Yakuza I was seeing a ronin, nearly naked except for the small chaddi he was wearing cutting and hacking his enemies, but somehow I knew he was going to loss.
His sword cut another fellow. He shrieked and fell down, the green grass turned bloodier and messy.
Another horde came. He gripped his sword firmly. He attacked. Slash-hack-cut,slash-hack-cut,slash-hack-cut, one by one, neat, pre-emptive strikes, but the melee only grew stronger. And finally he fell back.
And he died.
I found him in the ground. His body was riddled with bullets.
“I die.” He said.
“Can I go back there again?” I ask.
“Yes, when the time will come, you can go back to that place. Give my greetings to now and all. Now off you go, find your peace, find your anger, find your life, it will be hidden, somewhere, where I can’t say. Like my life is hidden now, and I am off to a journey to find it. I won’t be back, but you will be. And when you feel that the you have found it, return to your home. But even if you haven’t found it, return, when back. Maybe you can found it where you have never searched. My friend, I really killed my wife. I did. and she will be joining me in this search. I killed my friends. I killed my boss. I have killed many a innocent people. Though I have never questioned this killings, I have never supported them as well. Maybe my search will begin in Jigoku, where the demons of hell will tell me, about my faults and mistakes, where I can meet the people I desire. Bye my friend.”

That was the end. He closed his eyes. And then he died. I slowly bowed before him. I picked up my bag. I came out of the cemetary. It was unrippled. And no one would know that so many things happened.
Through my broken japanese I found the way to the nearest subway.
I caught the tube to Tokyo.
And among the crowd I saw sheepman, I saw Dick and others.
They could not recognize me. or rather I felt the chose not to recognize me, till I recognized myself.
“we are all going for a party at a geisha’s house.” Norman Mailer told me.
I would meet him again in Mostocow, the Capital of Russki, but that was another story. I will write about it, definitely. Yes. I shall.

I took the first plane out of Nippon. Out of the place. I had the gun. And no one told me anything.
I chose a random place. I sat comfortably on my seat. Beside me was a rock and roll star. And I decided I was going to follow him. it was going to be my next journey, through the turbulences and the fences of naked emotions.
And the airhostess told us to fasten our seat belts. I had already done so.


And it was that time when Gomorrah had just started taking baby steps. One by one. Unlike Hindustan and Pakistan, it wasn’t burning, but it was building. Slowly. But surely. The ladders were placed. People were climbing higher. Higher to reach the stars. And in the rooms of unholy ghats near the Champa Lake, Darius Bombaiwala was screwing Vinata or our dear old vinny aunty while his own wife, the lovely infectious Minerva was getting a frenzied orgasm courtesy Videshkumar Nariattam. He was happy. some guy called Francis Fjord Cupola had given him a role in Hollywood movie starring the immortal Marlowe Branded whose butter anal sex with Claudia Sniffer[actually Schneider, but the director called her so for the more amount of tears she cried before the scenes were shot], refusal of oxcar for racist treatments against the Punjabis and a horde of mistress and Charlies Sin, a new kid on the block. The movie was called Apocalypse then and now. and it involved conrad’s heart of darkness. A modern adaptation. And Cupola got famous, because he made a movie called God and Father, a take on the Fascist Italian Mafia, through Jesus and stuff. So you see, it was the same movie for which Marlowe Branded refused the Oxcar, where he played Jesus’ father, the jesus played by another stalwart All Paciknow. And the movie was to be shot in Gomorrah. No better place than Gomorrah, the director had declared as hungry paparazzi and reporters had attacked him in Gomorrah International airport. Some critics had derided that the movie should have gone to Godarned, a french auteur known for his surreal post-mortems or Bunuwell, spanish movie matador, but he declined sincering his age or even maybe Federico Flailini. But it was a movie on the recently concluded vietnam war. And the movie was much supported by the then 2nd citizen Darshonik Pluto. And in this brouhaha, came Allen Jeanspant, straight from Calcutta, and inspired the small but motley crue of Gomorrah Poets with his Poem most Foul and Arbit generation theories, Jack Kerouac, Burroughs and others. And it was a quiet period of small spasmodic revolutions. And in this discernible chaos, I was getting ready to born. All ready. The stage. Everything. lights, camera and action.
And In his Poem Most Foul, Jeanspant speaks of the best mind of his time. minds. All were connected to a central processor, where there thoughts were equally processed and emitted out. Yes, when I was young, I felt I was part of such a blatant imagination. But I was wrong, since the fabled angel engineers was within me, controlling me, not letting me venture out. The poem was often quoted by rebels and intellectuals alike, by thought criminals or even by intelmen. Anyone would always be inspired by Poem most Foul, by Kink Lloyd, by Doors and Windows, by Jimmy Henchicks, by Bob Garderner, By Bob Tambourine Man and there were many others. The seventy’s, the decade of my birth, was the culturally the most illustrious period. And I present you just the distorted view. Imagine. the battles In bananas, the holy city of Cow land Hindustan, smoking chillums with the sadhus. The Khacksiyals, the student rebels or the Foxes, in Bangal, as they dared the government to fuck their asses. They fucked and then got fucked back. The Charu sanyals, the Kanu Mazumders, the nights in Naxalbaris, and Babyji going high and higher, assuming dictatorial powers, nearly, winning the Bangladesh war, 72, Shimla Pact, and yes I can’t rant and rave and chant and crave for that time to come back, but I don’t think I will remember the volatileness of those days, when the days would be nothing.

At Ankita’s urge I finally made a move.
“You are too preoccupied with yourself and others. Ease yourself.” As she drove towards Greek Bundar she told me that she had to know me better before she said yes to the marriage. I nodded. Marriage, it was going to be a farce in the making. It was an old ploy. To trap me. To never let me go. Never. And I was in Gomorrah, only for around ten hours.
We stopped near Greek Bundar and entered a tea kiosk.
“Night tea is perfect.” She said, ordering two cups.
She told that she came here often with her friends during college days. and college days. fashion brigade, the ultra-neo-realistic poser bums, the fuckless furies of the cocaine laced grey matter, the menstruated bitches taking the bloody needle in their veins, sex, sex and a bit of more sex, and again more sex, the bloody so called looking good, the bloody so called trying to act smart, trying to be the biggest attention whore in the college, intellectual carcasses, poser corpses, the revolution of sympathy and empathy, bloody drinking, yes one more glass, bragging like a old duke La Italia, bloody fuck, bloody screw, the fifth generation was nothing but fucktard, whoever gonna say that you have a bright future, tie you up moron, and you face the firing squad, the fifth is the last, the blood picnic of decadence, the orgiastic ecstasy, and here she comes again, another snort of cocaine, yes that’s it, shut the bickering man, you know we are the cools, we are, we are the braggarts, we brag, we wear GAP, GAS, Levi’s, we know nothing, yet we pretend we know everything, we are racist, but when it comes to sex, we are bloody catholics, come baby, your pussy is the same as a hindu, as a moslem chick, anything, that’s college life, yes, that was college, and that will be it, maybe it will change for the worse, and worse, what worse, yes I pose the question, the paintaras and the bhenteras, I am the best, screw the rest attitude, love, yes love poured out in a public toilet, flushed, and yes, another shot of cocaine, take it baby, let’s hang in the lounge, let;s make a mms, mail it all around, Hindustan is progressing, old men in shorts, who claim that they are celibates, wank as they see the footage in their berries, and the next day they protest, the college students, the school students, the profs, the princies, the media, all fuck that girl again,again and again, yes, sex ain’t cool no more, no condom, no whore, and it all turns out be a jigsaw puzzle out of the 5th dimension, you wonder when did this crap come from, suddenly feminists stands up, two hours before they were getting laid, full co-operation and suddenly this is chauvinism, another girl got raped, yes, near Cannot Circus Area In Dilli, the capital of Mera Bharat Mahan, the CM guzzles, girls should wear more, yes, they should, now who to blame, who will take the cake, the diaspora is fucked, completely, the society is fucked decisively, the youngistaan is a fucking illusion brother, no Bonbir Kapoor, drinking Pyaasi, taking a sexy chick directly to his home, or Totla Khan, stammering as he plays brother to Marathi Mulgi Degikya Fartinthecorner, or super-zero, anorexic Carrina making the drought region victims blush out of shame, everything becomes a fad, and the youngistaan is a nothing but a dead end, the end of the road, now go and fuck, do booze, yes nevermind, party hard, fuck harder, condoms will tear, I don’t bother, I do the same thing, I am proud that I am a hypocrite, I will keep on doing so, why do I scream then, please, I never asked you to change your ways, do everything you want, but change the attitude, but again then, please don’t bother to the words of a hypocritical bastard, let me a rant a bit, I ain’t feel like talking to Ankita, on her birthday she came here, probably had booze and fagged a lot, the pictures were uploaded in the social network website, the singing and the dancing hyenas, all pounced upong, congratulating on her coming of age, the bloody Bildungsroman, the variety, the tragedy all hushed up, and another youngistaan, bites the dust and no one will know, as the dark is mighty, this is the end my friend, Jim mamujan will sing, hear it plenty. Posers and losers and the genuine whiners, where you have to go, Fey, brother I miss you, the one who could have changed the lot, maybe in one swipe,a direction, an aimless renderation of the same problems, and like me, will sulk, will be a dogla, will abuse the system and the way society is, will abhor drugs and liquor and sexual litany, and yet in the presence of friends, will praise the hippie behaviour, only more outrageous and commendable, the ostentatious double standards, the fifth generation, needs a standing ovation, bravo boy, bravo girl, don’t blame the west, don’t blame nobody, we are proud of you, and we will always be so.
“You never came here.” Ankita asked.
“The kiosk was never here when I was young.”
“Babuji, the stall is here for the last five years now?” the man, a typical man, with a half-cardigan and monkey cap, yellow teeth, freckled skin, said.
“and you are not a local right?”
“no babuji, I am from the poor state of India.”
I nodded. Maybe Gomorrah need Raj Tharki, of Bombai. Commendable job he was doing. Bombai for Bombhais, no outsiders, no uttar-bharatiyas, no others, no one. Entry prohibited. Bombai went on, limping. Yes, now they call it amchi Mumbai, and Raj has a party too, yes, there job is to protect, hypocrisy, yes the protect hypocrisy from going out of hand, Bombai you are in a good hand, Gomorrah wait, ideas travel faster than light, and brother poor man, get ready to get your butt kicked, gomorrah, you just turned out to be the polio-affected twin of Mera Bharat Mahan, or Hindustan, tried everything so amicably, but... and then yes, Sodom happened, at one go, we got everything, a raj tharki, a Bal tharki, Pal Madhwani, everything, it was the volcano piping hot, and my dearest friend Garuda Ganapati, najaias aulad of Darius Bombaywala, was the part of it. and that time I was 40, married to Ankita, father of two children. And yes tonight, in a lowly tea-shop I am going to propose her, but somewhere in me, Suyasha lives, nurtured by the only peace that is left in me.
“Marry me.”
“I have to.” Ankita said.
“But there won’t be love.” I said.
“Right, like you can never love me.”
“I know, neither will you.”
“No.”
The decision was made, I was going to marry Ankita Aurora Sen. We left Greek Bundar, at dawn, I kissed her, and hugged her tight, the place was the statue of Socrates Das, and suddenly I felt a urge that I should love her, be good to her and then it all went astray. This was life.
I left Greek Bundar. But the story would never end, the blind beggar man would never see, the coolies would go on, Madan Choksi of Meena Bazaar would keep on screaming Fultu Item hein Bawa, and I would keep on dreaming and dreaming all alone on an empty sheet of canvas.

Our marriage was going to be a joke, a farcical comedy, written by the so called elite classes. And it was pityful, that there was going to be so much money wasted on me, on a night of grand orgy, a fantastic debauchery, where the one and all, the lipstick-smeared, half-naked randis and tux wearing bharwas would come and congratulate me, as I have to stand with my wife smiling, seeing all those jokers, all those buffoons and the fools and the myriad creatures straight out of a fable, and yet, I have to accept them as they are, a joke, a farce, a tragedy, in a non-comical sense, in a blatant lie of blanket, a tremendous outpour. And I dread the day of engagement, yes, there will be so many of them, all surrounding me and her, expecting me to indulge in the same amount of licoriced celebration, as the bands will play, and some out of order mentally malfucntioning fuck of a so called friend of mine, with whom maybe I had gone to nursery, would come and declare his love and eternal friendship of mine and then would congratulate me and there would be a long line of so called friends and acquaintances and my eyes would stiffly project on the long line, hoping among these crowd there would be Suyasha, there would be Garuda. But I know, I will be wrong, as I have always have, as I have always dreamt of beating the odds against my so called Fates, the three sisters far more smarter than me, who has outmaneuvered me at each and every steps, through magic and gimmicks and my own dose of bad lucks, and here I am , getting a fuck, as I perspire at the destined outcome. I am fucked, I am screwed, my life hang by a thin thread of hope.I wish I could escape, but to find my life, as the Yakuza told me, search where you have never searched before. The place, which I called home. My Home. Yes it is. My home.