"Fifteen Men On The Dead Man's Chest"

Jim Hawkins is in the company of lunatic seamen, hungry for treasure, and Flint screams at them with a "Fetch me rum; Darby!", and the other sing their screams of:

Fifteen men on a dead man's chest

Yo ho ho and a bottle of rum

Drink and the devil had done for the rest

Yo ho ho and a bottle of rum.

And, the ten year old me couldn't wait to scream along with the chorus of 'Yo ho ho and a bottle of rum'. Every time I picked the book, I was transported into the world of Hawkins, Flint, Trelawney, Billy Bones, Black Dog, Long John Silver and Ben Gunn. Till date, I remember the exact words with which Flint was tricked to death- an ingenious Ben Gunn mimicking Flint's “Darby M’Graw! Darby M’Graw! Fetch me rum; Darby!” 

After a long time, a conversation with a friend today reminded us of all the 'non-detailed prescribed readings' we had in school as part of the curriculum. We've had Treasure Island, Merchant of Venice and other plays of Shakespeare, books of Ruskin Bond, short stories of O. Henry and Oscar Wilde, The Story of My Life by Helen Keller, Silas Marner by Eliot- and I think Treasure Island was our favourite amongst these. 

The original title of the book was actually "The Sea Cook" - for Long John Silver, placing him as the main villain and central character of the book. But, later the name was changed to Treasure Island. It has to be said that out of all the villains I have met in the wide range of fiction that I have consumed, Long John Silver is definitely the most charming, witty villain ever. 

Who doesn't love a cool pirate story filled with adventure, fights, treasure, an island that looks like a "fat dragon standing up", the sea, some rum, a lot of apple barrels, and an escape plan! Stevenson takes you through a ride that is an unforgettable experience, and would still keep you excited about it, a decade after reading it! Hispaniola and its crew will leave you with a treasure hoard of memories. 

If you haven' t read it, please do! You are guaranteed an adventure you'll love every second. 

*Meter Cost Only*

The old man stopped a passing auto rickshaw. The auto rickshaw came to a halt ten paces in front of him and vroomed. He walked towards it. The auto driver looked at him expressionless.

“Bunny Colony,” he said.

“Get in!” said the auto rickshaw man, and turned away from the old man.

“Put on the meter, please!” said the old man, determined to pay only what was worth the ride.

The auto rickshaw driver stared at the old man as if he had just said something which was forbidden to say, vroomed his vehicle, and took off. The old man looked at the speeding auto rickshaw skeptically, and started walking again. He stopped another speeding auto rickshaw. This one stopped twenty paces before him. The old man walked up to the vehicle, again.

“Bunny Colony,” the old man said.

The auto rickshaw man signalled the old man to get inside, and looked away.

“Put on the meter, please!” said the old man, glancing at the auto rickshaw man hopefully.

This auto rickshaw driver looked at him as if he must be crazy to make such a statement, snickered, and zoomed off. The old man looked at his watch. He still had lots of time. So, he walked on. Another speeding auto rickshaw stopped on its own. 

“Where to?” called the auto rickshaw driver.

“Bunny Colony,” said the old man.

“Get in!” said the driver.

“Put on the meter, please!” said the old man, with the same polite tone he had used with the other two men.

“Meter? What did you say, sir? Meter!” laughed the driver. “No meter, sir. Two fifty rupees…”

“Two fifty? No…” said the old man. “Put the meter on, or go off!”

The auto rickshaw man stared at the old man for sometime, and then gestured to the old man to get in again.

“Okay, okay. Give me two hundred…” said the driver, making an expression signifying great sacrifice.

“No, no, no… I am not giving you anything but the cost on the meter,” said the old man simply. Now, he turned away as if uninterested. He started walking again.

The auto vroomed from it’s place for sometime, expecting the old man to give up and turn back to it, but when it seemed like that wasn't going to happen, it sped away.

The old man turned the street corner after stopping a moment to wipe the pearls of sweat off his forehead. He crossed the street to reach the main road where many auto rickshaws stopped by. None of them would agree for the meter cost. Finally, an auto stopped again.

“Yes, sir?” asked the driver.

“Bunny Colony,” the old man said, for the umpteenth time, very patiently.

This auto rickshaw man, just like all the rest, signalled the old man to get in.

“Put on the meter, please!” said the old man, still polite.

The man turned on the meter promptly, and then said, “Give me thirty rupees on top of the meter charges!”

“Sorry, only meter charges. Nothing more…” said the old man.

“Get in sir! Paying an extra twenty rupees is better than getting a heat stroke!” said the man, sarcastically.

“Thank you. I will take care,” said the old man, plainly, and turned away.

The bus stop was there. He could go there. So, the old man went there, and waited for a bus to turn up.

And, then again, an auto rickshaw stopped by.

“Bunny Colony,” said the old man.

“Get in!” said the auto rickshaw man, and turned away from the old man.

“Put on the meter, please!” said the old man. And the auto zoomed off. Another auto stopped by. He tried ignoring the auto rickshaw. He didn’t want to ask them anymore. He was pretty tired.

“Where to, sir?” asked a young driver.

“Will you put on the meter?” asked the old man, directly.

The boy pointed proudly at the “METER COST ONLY” sticker which was pasted in front of the auto rickshaw. The old man looked at it, and allowed himself a smile.

“Bunny Colony,” said the old man.

Before Sunset

My long hair tousled by the cool, mellow breeze that blew in a course that pushed all my hair to the right, and my mind put to peace by the melodic chimes of the gentle wind and the soothingly alluring dance of the waves as they came from far to near, rising and falling, keeping the rhythm of what seemed the order of the world- I sat there taking in the whiff of saline air as the skittish waves played with my calloused feet, running them over with white, happy foam before they withdrew into the sea liberating the trapped sands under my feet. 

My eyes stared into the distant horizon, a line where the sky met the sea and where the serene colours of warmth and tranquil made a heavenly blend- a spectacle to watch, and I thanked myself for reaching the shore on time to catch a happy moment, one that would be etched in my mind for eternity. And, right on the line was the sun, the giant celestial ball of fire that gives our Earth its life, slowly descending after the day's job in this half of the globe. 

The water shone and sparkled in the beautiful pale tint of pinkish and reddish orange, gleaming in the direct rays of the setting sunlight, scattered around by the water and air. And at that moment, no thought could precede the one about this wondrous life and the order of nature. The sun no longer visible, but the water in the shade of a blissful, deep red and a bluish tinge marked the beginning of the oncoming nightfall. I smiled. 

The foamy water was still playing around my calloused feet, and I knew they would as long as I stayed, such faithful companions for the mind. I picked my duffel bag lying on the side,  brushed away the fine, wet sand clinging in defiance, and strapped it over on my shoulders ready to leave for the day. 

Another evening well spent, and every evening of my life shall be so, as long as I manage to reach the heavenly seashore- before sunset.

Meeting In The Cabin

Meet me in my cabin at 3, we need to have a word.

Why? Why did she want to meet me? I already submitted the papers one week ago! So, it couldn’t be the project. Or, maybe there was some weird result in the plagiarism check? But, I had written almost every word of it by myself, and it wasn’t like there were many sources to lift from! No, it cannot be the project. Wait, did I forget to format the citations? I didn’t think so, as I remembered looking up the OSCOLA references. What could it be?

Did I do something in class? I was listening to her in class and making notes. Well, mostly. But, that really isn’t a crime. If she was calling me to her cabin, it must be something serious. Did I annoy her by chatting a bit in the middle? I had made sure she was turned the other way round. No, she couldn’t have known. Oh right, it must have been the phone. I had just taken a sneak peak at it in class, come on! And, I did that only to clear away the notifications and turn off the vibration. I made sure she didn’t see me do that, but…  Did she? God, I hoped she wouldn't take away my phone, maybe I shouldn’t take my phone along with me to her cabin. Yup, a sensible idea- leave the phone behind. 

Wait, wait, wait, by God, I knew why she called me. I was talking about how she didn’t really do a great job while teaching the second module. Pretty loudly, actually. But that was not on purpose, that’s just my voice. She was in the mess! Was my heart beating faster? Would she believe me when I told her I actually loved her teaching but it was just a casual statement only about that module? No, that’s unbelievable, only a fool would believe it. This was just going to annoy her more. I didn’t really mean it that day. At least, not how she’d have taken it to be. This was it, you always have bad luck when you talk about other people. It was my fault, and I will profusely apologize for it. She would have to accept it. 

She said 3, it’s already 2:55! Enough panicking, time to pick my bags and run. That was such an uncomfortable footwear to run in! The last thing I wanted to be is late. I could not afford to make her more mad. Stupid me, should have known it was this! Please, save me, please, please. My heart was thumping even faster. I was not sure if it was because of the running or the fear. Maybe, both. I could see her cabin. 

Wait, let me drink some water and calm myself, and put up an earnest, innocent smile. Just be the most sincere kid for once, could I? No water. I left the bottle in the mess, and I had to pick it back up without forgetting- this was the third bottle already this semester! Okay, for then I had to focus on the cabin. I calmed myself, looked at myself in the reflective glass door, wet my lips and put up a smile that said- mam, you had called me! - as if she had called me to praise me. Was I sure that I was ready to push open the door, and enter? And then, I could not undo the opening. She must be inside. 

I brandish the thoughts with a shake of my head, and then push the door open. 

'Hello, mam!' I said.

‘Please knock before coming in,’ she said, in an off, dismissive tone. 

That’s it, I was gone. I just made it all worse. How could I not do the most basic thing ever? Knock. This was an unnecessary addition to my already existing problems- of course, as always, brought upon me by myself. 

‘Take a seat,’ she said. 

‘It’s alright, mam’ I said, but then I sat down anyway realizing that it would make me look less nervous. 

These teachers were always great at a build up. My heart was already in my throat. Why couldn’t she just get to the point? After a couple of more seconds of appearing busy and opening random tabs in the computer in front of her, she spoke again.

‘I read your project,’ she said, and then gave a pause. That pause- such an effective one. I made a mental note on how effective pauses can be.

So, it was the project. Partly, relief. And partly, confusion. A wave of relief washed over me and my nervousness cut down by half because it wasn’t my comment in the mess. I was confused because I didn’t really plagiarize anything or write anything wrong. I had followed all the specifications she had wanted. 

‘It is great, I can see the hard work. If you are interested in working a little more on it, we can get it ready to try a publication.’

I just sat there, and smiled- a blank, mundane one. My mind could only think of all the brainless things I had managed to do, and I didn’t even realize teachers could call you for other reasons. I thought my justifications would come off as unbelievable. But, she played me well. Teachers could be unbelievable sometimes, too.

Point Of View

It had been several months since I properly kept the balcony open. After investing an hour on dusting, mopping, and sweeping it clean, I dragged up a comfortable chair, and sat out in my balcony, gazing idly at the idleness. We, as a society in general, were suffering from an enforced, pensive idleness due to the outbreak of a pandemic. I stared at the poster of Neeti Jewellers on the two barricades placed to restrict movement in and out of my street. We heard that morning that the number of cases in our street had increased, and so they came and blocked the entrances to our street with the movable barricades. 

Sitting across my balcony, on the apartment opposite to mine, was a small girl who looks about eleven or twelve. I broke into a smile as our eyes connected. 

‘Tell me if you like the book after you read it,’ I called out to her. 

She smiled briefly with a coy nod, then turned her attention back to the copy of Burnett’s The Secret Garden in her hand. I smiled again, this time to myself. I had read it too, must have been around when I was her age. I went back to staring at the Neeti Jewellers poster, but this time lost in my indecisive thoughts on whether I should go get a book for myself, too, or whether to continue staring at the deserted street. 

The sound of a four-wheeler made both me and my young friend across the balcony turn towards its source. A car was coming from the other end of the street. As it came nearer to the barricades, it slowed down to a halt, and a young boy got down from the car to scan the barricades and check if they can enter our street.

'Excuse me, hey, they have blocked it because there are a few infected houses here,' I called out to him. 'Where do you have to go?'

'We need to go to Arcade Flats, is it too far out?' asks the young boy. 

'Not really, right over two blocks away. You could park your car, and walk up,' I clarified to them. 'Try not to touch the barricades while you go, they may not be safe.' 

The young boy went back to the car, bent down to the level of the window and had a word with the other man inside, must have been his father. After what seemed like a brief argument that they had, the young boy, with a slightly put-off face, dragged the barricade to the side to make space for the car to go. I looked at it with surprise and bemusement. The young boy got into the car, and they took off only to stop in front of the flat that was two blocks away from mine. I looked across my balcony at the little girl, and she looked at me. 

I gave a smile that read 'hopeless', but she looked indecisive. 

'What happened?' I asked her. 

'The barricades,' she says, pointing to them. 

'I know, I told him but they still went through. I also asked him not to touch it and that's exactly what he did! They wanted to go in, I think,' I replied to her. 

'But they didn't move it back,' she replied simply, and after a couple of seconds, went back inside her house.

I sat there looking at the pushed-open barricades. While I was still thinking about how I hadn't thought what the little girl did about the barricades not being moved back, the little kid and her father came out from the gate of the opposite building.

'Stay there,' he instructed her, and went towards the barricades. His hands slipped into a make-shift polythene cover, he dragged back the barricades, took a rope from his pocket, and made a loose knot connecting the two barricades. He then removed the make-shift glove-covers and threw them in the street dustbin nearby.

I allowed myself a smile. 'That's a good idea, uncle, but what if someone needs to go through?' I called out. He looked up and gave a short laugh.

'She wouldn't let it stay open, it's a loose knot and I thought the rope is a better deterrent while looking at it from the car, they might not try to take it off unless necessary,' he commented, and walked back in with his little girl.

While I had focused all my bemused thoughts on how the people in the car still went in despite me telling them that it's just two blocks away, the little girl's thoughts had been on a more useful place- to ensure it's shut again so that more people and cars do not pass through. My abstract thoughts led me to realize how small changes, in what and how we think, can do much more good than just pointing fingers at something wrong. My thoughts were more accusive, while her little brain was proactive. Both are right thoughts, but hers was more useful.

I smiled again. Kids had a lot to teach us, and a world with such thoughts might be a better place for all!

Gripped In Doubt

As I switched on the television, the announcer said, “This dangerous man escaped from the jail and is believed to have-”

I couldn’t hear anymore. My ears seemed to have turned deaf. I blankly stared at the photograph of the man who had escaped from jail. He was a man around forty, with an almost bald head, and slightly overweight build. He wore perfectly round glasses, projecting his perfectly round eyes, on his perfectly round face. And, who was this? None but I. It seemed impossible.

I pinched to check if it was a nightmare. No such luck. I was fully awake. I was already feeling a tinge of an inexplicable mix of fear and guilt, for reasons I couldn’t understand why. I partially froze in panic, but my mind was racing. Thoughts of approaching the police were instantly countered by a steady, growing fear that they would turn a deaf ear to me, and simply throw me behind bars. That was not how things happen, I knew, but seeing my photo on a wanted list was also something I could have sworn wouldn’t happen, a couple of minutes ago.

Or, is that how things happen? Warrants are needed for an arrest, but are those rules followed? I would have the right to call a lawyer, but I don't even know one. What about bail? I knew nothing of those laws, and nor did I have the money. Could they beat me up? Could I seek justice in our courts of law if they did? And, what if the courts take several years to deal with my case? Would I be in jail if I couldn't pay up for the bail?

What did I do? I am innocent, but will they believe me? What if someone has framed me? Can I talk to the news channel? Should I tell my wife? Should I close my windows? What if someone from this flat has already called the cops by now? I hear a siren wailing, my heart pounds faster, but the noise fades away into the distance as the vehicle passes. I squint through the window- it was an ambulance.

What will the society think? What will I tell my wife, children? Will they believe that I did something wrong, too? Will it come in the papers? Would my son be ridiculed in school? Will my wife be taunted by family? What if they take me away and not release me? Who will earn for the family? How can I prove I am innocent?

Looming paranoia cut my voice to a dead silence. Sweat rolled down my forehead. Wiping it off, I went and switched on the fan, and took a look at the news again. 

Minutes later, I mustered enough courage to contact the news channel office, and tell them that I was no dangerous man. When I did so, there was nothing but a surprise and what felt like a voice I would associate with wide eyes. It turned out that their enlarged pupils were not due to the fear of a call from the ‘dangerous man’, but because they had no clue what I was saying. Each time I tried to explain and they didn’t understand, I grew tenser. My racing grey cells even started suspecting them of killing time until the cops, whom they must have tipped, arrived. Finally, one of the persons from the channel understood what I was speaking about, and then the next moment there was hue and cry on the other side of the telephone. And, now, it was my time to feel astonished.

They simply stated that my image was wrongly embedded into a wrong news piece. The accused was not me. I had won the 8 PM quiz of the channel, the previous night, and the winner with his/her image was to be displayed. She apologized, and asked me to check the news channel again. I turned to the TV, and there it was- the image of another man under the head-bar 'dangerous', and mine at the bottom right corner under the head 'Quiz Winner: 03 March'. She apologized again, a little more profusely, informed me that the clarification shall be put up by the news channel immediately, and hung the call. 

I sat down in front of the TV staring at their 'clarification'. My eyes unfocused, my heart pounding, and my mind still. I felt like I had lost my life and then had it returned to me.

Lost In The Shuffle

A boy stood gazing at the road near the gate of his school. Between the boy and the gate, stood a small, scared puppy. Cautiously, the puppy approached the boy, timid in its steps, while the boy continued to gaze at the traffic on the road. Despite the puppy being near to him, the boy did not notice the puppy. Even when the puppy placed a soft paw on the hands of the little boy, there was no sign of reaction or reflex in the boy. Frantically, the puppy gave him a few more taps on his hand with its paw. Grumbling at the lack of response, the puppy retired back to the gate, and lay down, still with its eye on the boy. Hours later, the boy was still standing in the same position, still gazing at the traffic. In the meantime, the puppy had gone to a slumber. Jambu, who was the watchman to the school and had looked upon these events musingly as he sat in his usual chair, finally decided to go up to the boy to find out what he wanted. Kneeling down to the little boy’s height, Jambu began a conversation with the boy.

‘Looking at those cars, are you? Haven’t you watched them for too long now?’ asked Jambu, smilingly. 

‘Mother has not come back yet,’ replied the little boy.

‘Not to worry, boy! She’ll be here soon…’

‘On the way, she told me 2 hours ago on call. It takes only 40 minutes to get to school from the zoo. I’m waiting for her, she promised to take me to the park.’

‘Probably she is stuck in traffic, she’ll be here soon, and I’ll call you the moment her car comes.’

Quietly, the boy brought a chair and settled near the gate. Realizing that the boy was not going to go back, Jambu took his chair near the boy’s and settled next to him. 

Something felt wrong to Jambu, though he couldn’t place what it was. Time ticked away, and after several more hours, the traffic thinned. Unsure of what to do with the boy, Jambu asked the boy for his mother’s number, but the boy did not know. Voluntarily, Jambu offered to drop the boy home, but the boy didn’t reply. When Jambu was struggling with the case of the boy, an elderly woman rushed up to the gate of the school, and called out the little boy’s name. 

‘Xavier!’ she called, and hugged and cried when she saw the little boy sitting, and the puppy ran to the boy and the elderly lady. 

‘Your boy, mam, has been sitting here all day saying that his mother told him she was on the way on call, but nobody came and I was starting to get worried!’ exclaimed Jambu, feeling thankful that somebody came to pick up the little boy. 

‘Zoo accident… his mother passed away a year ago, and the last thing she told him on call was that she is on the way,’ explained the little boy’s grandma before she thanked the watchman for taking care of the boy.

Jambu stood there, the realization of the gravity of loss and attention on the little boy numbing him to a dark silence. 

I Am A Handbag, And This Is My Story

Image from Clipart

I am typing this out in my lady’s old smartphone. So, if you come across any typos, please IGNORE.

Well, you already know who I am, right? The title says it. I am a handbag. And, what am I writing about? It is my story so far. I’ve mentioned both of these in my title because my previous owner, an English teacher, always insisted her students to give a “suitable” title to their writing. And over the years, after witnessing many a fatal red-ink circles over the titles, I have come to understand that here “suitable” means a title that explains and conveys to the reader what your writing is about. 

Moving on to my story, and I am going to start right at the very beginning.

I was born on 20 June, 2000. I was a dark blue baby with comic designs all over me. I was the most beautiful of the whole lot. So, naturally, I was immediately shipped along with a dozen others to the city’s leading fashion bag store- The Bagstore. I gazed at the big mall entrance, from where I was trolley-ed three floors up to the store. Among hundred other shops, I spotted the board stylishly written: The Bagstore.

Well! That was my destination. I was one of the show pieces. That suited me well because I could observe everything from my seat instead of being in a dark dungeon of a storehouse! But I faced one particular problem- nobody bought me. 

First, it was all very fine. I made good friends with the other bags, and we really did have a fun time. But soon, each and every one of them found their owner. I was left alone to wait for what seemed like an eternity. 

When women stopped to gaze, or even passed pretty slowly, I gave my best enchanting smile, hoping that they would notice. Yes, they did notice. They even came near me, examined me, and exclaimed about how very cute I was. Most of them, kindled my hope by hugging me and tugging me in their arms, while looking at the full-length mirrors of the store. Yet, none of them ever bought me. 

‘Why is it so?’- that was the question that racked my brain. Then, I began to notice a pattern in their behavior. All of them, at the end, looked at my price tag; they sighed audibly. They placed me back in my original place. All of them, invariably, glanced longingly at me and then left, never to return that way. 

So! The reason must be my price. Isn’t it unfair that we Bags ourselves cannot decide our price? After all, the money doesn’t even come to us! What is important for us is a nice owner, not the money. And, in this case, they had set a very, very high price for me since I was the “cute bag”. I realized that being too beautiful was also a problem, being a bag. Not being cute is also a problem- you might never get sold, but at least they had that chance among those who prefer the less expensive! 

I was anxious about finding an owner soon, before I became “out of fashion”.

Then came Neela. She was the boon to my prayers. A middle-aged, stern looking lady, clad in crisp cotton saree, and with round spectacles lodged loosely on her nose, clearly way out of the target-audience I was trained to smile at, purchased me. It was a dream come true! I was so faithful to her, and gave the brightest, most enchanting smile I'd ever given to make sure that passers-by had a compliment for her about me. She always smiled softly when she received them, and gave me a few lovable pets every time somebody complimented. I was never happier.

Several years rolled by. I learnt many things about Neela. She was an English Teacher, and a proficient one at that. She corrected her students' answer scripts sincerely, and I got to learn much of the English I know from her. I also got to read so many interesting novels that she carried around with her in me. She particularly was a fan of the plays of George Bernard Shaw, and read and re-read most of them. She carried a generous amount of cash, and stored all her bills meticulously. She also carried with her chocolates, safety pins, a lip balm, her spectacle box and her phone charger always. Most of my inner-side came to be stained with read ink and scratches.

I was a very happy Bag, until one day there came a decisive turn in the fate of my life. She had left me at home one day, and when she came back, there was a new Bag, shinier, bigger and seemed to be of a new fashion. My panic grew as she slowly started shifting her stuff out of me on to the table. I knew it then, the stuff wasn't coming back to me. She picked me up as she opened her cupboard. Trying hard to stay with her, I slipped from her hand and fell to the ground, hoping she would not discard me into the forgotten parts of the cupboard.

But, she picked me up back and gently placed me in the corner of the cupboard, and shut me into the dark. For a few minutes, I couldn't understand. It was all over, in less than a minute. 

"Feeling bad?" I heard a voice. I turned to see the other bags, most of them really old that I didn't even recognize their fashion. 

"Yeah, she threw me out," I said. 

"That's the lifetime of a bag, my dear. Neela is one of the nicer people. She would never throw you out," said an elderly Sling-purse.

I looked again properly at them, and realized there was a whole family there. I sighed, as I settled back, allowing myself a sad smile. 

Wondering how I am writing this out, then?

Several more years later, Neela took me back out. But, this time not for herself, but for her daughter. I gave an enchanting smile as the thirteen year old girl hugged me tightly, and squealed with excitement as she arranged her things in me. And she put her mom's old phone, which was now hers, and slung me on proudly. She was going out on a school excursion, and I was the dream bag she wanted from all of her mother's collection. 

I felt something familiar- that I had never been happier. And, it hit me that it's all just a phase, both happiness and sadness. 

And, presently, I type this out as my new friend is busy chatting up with her friends in the room. Life is not all too bad, it's all just a phase, and the cycle is bound to repeat! See you soon! 

Au revoir mon ami! (Oh, yeah, my little friend reads French, so I'm picking up a new language because Neela used to keep saying: you're never too old to learn!)

The Last Chance

A neat, lean, thirty-ish, crisp looking Indian lady in formals, walked up the podium. The auditorium fell silent as she switched on the mic. 

“Esteemed scholars, ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the 25th International Conference on Human Survival. It has been a privilege for India to host this important and urgent SOS conference. Without further ado, I would like to call upon Mr. Devesh Kesari to break the news. Thank you. Mr. Kesari, you have the floor for the next fifteen minutes.”

*

Humans are weird creatures. They know how to think, to communicate, to invent and innovate. But best of all they know to live. To survive through hardships. To sustain and establish themselves. Till date they are the most intelligent living terrestrial species. 

Humans are weird creatures. They do not have any enemy. So, they play enemies among themselves. They go on a war to establish peace. They divide themselves to create harmony. They invent guns to protect. 

But humans are also stupid. Not because they don’t know nature is always more powerful than themselves. But because they know it full well and yet exploit it. They are stupid, not because they don’t know there is a limit to their atrocious behaviour, but because they don’t change their behaviour even when they know they are crossing the limits. 

Earth survived the twenty-first century. But the trouble brewed up early in the twenty-second. And, then, man realised his mistake. But he continued to be stupid. When he realised that he cannot sustain longer, he just wanted to make the most of it and swindle as much pleasure he can from the time he has. 

But it can’t be entirely said that man didn’t try. He did. But the situation had gone beyond his ability to frame a solution. Man tried to invent machines. But machines were not useful. In fact, some were counter-productive. And, man didn’t know how to make anything other than machines. Things that have life. 

‘It can’t be saved anyway. I would rather enjoy myself than try to make changes,’ he thought. 

Well. man is so immature. But nature is not. 

Mother Nature is sweet as ever. And there, she passed on a boon, to the earthlings- her very own children- to save them from decline and herself from destruction, that she had gotten from the Gods, as a last chance for the intelligent earthlings to learn and mend their ways.

And what is this venom that we talk about that man invented unaware that it could endanger himself? 

Plastic.

Well, man can’t invent living things to consume plastic. But, God can. And, that, Mother nature graciously passed on to her children with the hope that they learn. 

There is our chance to use it wisely and save ourselves. Our one last chance.

Nature has provided us with the best chance- a tree that can degrade the polymeric structure of synthetics and plastics. In simple terms a tree that feeds on plastic, with a lifespan of exactly 80 years.

*

Dev hadn’t spoken a word about the actual statistics of human destruction and survival. Nor did he need the full 15 minutes to make the speech. He thought that if statistics could help, it already would have. Humans, when provided with statistics, only looked forward to manipulating it and fooling themselves. Thus, he had ended his statement on a human note, as a sincere appeal to all of the humanity that was left on this Earth.

120 Seconds

He looked out of the window as he sat stuck in traffic, inside a taxi cab. The traffic signal was on red for 120 seconds.

Hundreds of people- kids and adults, men and women, old and young, healthy and sick, rich and poor, without any difference, carried on with their morning routine. He watched them speculatively as they meandered through the haphazardly parked cars and two-wheelers, dodging the traffic on the road, and simultaneously taking care not to mess with the lounging canines that ruled the streets of the city, crossing the stretch of stench-filled drainages to the side of the road that was relatively better.

‘And, at the end of the day, they all return to the stench’ he mused.

He let his eyes wander. There was only one thought on his head. All of them pursue something everyday, but for what? They differed in qualification, and yet there was no difference in their routine. Be it a graduate, student, businessman, housemaid, or a beggar, they all ultimately were part of the same lethal routine. 

Through his window what he saw was people who, through the course of their life, got so consumed in monotony that they forgot the original purpose of the routine that they set out to achieve. And sooner or later, the routine itself became the purpose, trapping their lives in a vicious loop. 

But amongst all the black and white monotonous scrambling of the real world caught in an illusion, his eye caught the colourful sight of a six year old destitute kid making a drawing on the white walls using black charcoal. He saw the hills and vales, with blossom trees bearing luscious fruits, and greenery abundant. And, through the valley flowed a gushing river, so pristine that for today’s world it could be no more than a dream. 

He could not help but realize the irony. A black charcoal on a white wall showed more colour. 

Would she be caught in the same routine when she grows up? Or, would she continue to spread her colourful thoughts for all to see, just like the drawing on the wall?

The speculations were cut short within those 120 seconds of truth, as the car behind them gave short, irritated honks. The car moved forward as the traffic dissolved. He continued with his routine.