It’s raining heavily, and the PT hour is off. We are in the mess hall, playing carroms.

Avi then has a great idea.
“Let’s write an anonymous letter to someone.”

What?

“It will be fun. My brother and his friends used to do it to someone. Oh god” He starts laughing holding his stomach. We are awed.

“We’ll write a serious letter. To principal? No. Too risky. Who will we write to?”

“Let’s write to my father” Maya chirps in. “It would be fun watching him read it, and later on I can tell we did it.”

“Good. You write. If you write well, your hand wouldn’t look like a child’s” Avi tells me, and I pout. I am not a child, and I can write better than all of them together!

As the one chosen to execute so majestic an undertaking, I let go of the snub, and proudly writes the letter. As an imaginative eleven year old, I do not need much help from others. And when I hand over the ‘manuscript’ they almost clap.

Dear _____,

Hope you are doing good, and my letter finds you in perfect health and happiness. You must really be surprised at finding a letter from me now. I guess it has been close to 15 years or so we lost touch with each other. How time flies!

I am settled here now, and still work in the old School. I have had my degree later on, and now I am working in the UP section. I am doing pretty well. I was planning on writing you a letter from quite a long time, but unfortunately I did not even have your address. Raghavan Master managed to get it for me.

Tell me about yourslf. How are things? Do write to me about your family. I will be waiting to hear from you, and maybe we all can meet up once.

Yours,

______.

“Cool.He would be baking his head on this.” Maya is happy.

“Yeah. Good. Nothing to give away from whom or where. He might believe in it till he finds the postmark.” Avi says.

Oh, where will we say it is from?

“Remember my penfiend? He is from a place called Anandashram in Kasargode .We’ll just write Anandashram.”

Ashram?

“No, it’s a place. The post office name is Anandashram.”

So I write the invented name and Anandashram on the back of the inland letter, and Avi tells us the next day it is posted. “Moreover” he smiles brighlty,”it is posted in Vatakara.”

The vacation starts in a week and we are all back in a month, eagerly waiting for Maya.

“What happened? Did he believe it? What did he say later?” We bombard her with questions once she comes in.

“Well, it didn’t go as planned. He got the letter three days before I reached home”

And?

“He used to work in Kasargode before he married Mother. Before he got his current job”

And?

“It is a real Ashram. In kasargode. He used to go there always when he worked in Kasargode.”
No way. It is a post office.

“No. He has been there”

So?

“He thinks it’s someone he worked with then. He was saying he knew someone with the name, but he is not sure.”

She has a resigned look by now.

“Oh and he is going to Kasargode to meet him. He sent him a letter, but nothing came back. It didn’t return either. And he wanted to go last month, but couldn’t. Now is saying he will go sometime soon. He is kind of happy and excited about that letter. I don’t know..”

You didn’t tell him?

“No”

Tell him.Tell him, okay? Kasargode is like end of the world. He’ll go. Oh god. Tell him.

“I can’t. I am scared.”

She is almost crying, and we all sit there dumbfounded.

….

“Think of what he’ll say when he finds out you sent him that letter!” Avi tells me after a minute.

I am living with a ghost.

No, really. I do not believe in God, much less in ghosts or yakshis or other such silly supernatural things, but I know there is a ghost in the house. Why do you think my shower switches on at odd hours? The cupboards I close before going to office are invariably open by the time I come home. Wide open. Ditto with the bathroom and kitchen door I latch before going to sleep. Only thing I am kind of mad about is the gas stove. Leave it alone, can’t you?

But I do not have much of a problem with my ghost. I think it’s a little girl ghost with the pit-pat I hear when everything is quite, and there is the distinct sound of anklets drowned in laughter. All very subtle, and I have to strain my ears to hear it, but I know by the laughter it is a good ghost. Not the Linda Blair kind. And a laughing child is good to have around whether living or dead. Lifts you up, kind of.

But yesterday she really scared the hell out of me. I wake up suddenly in the middle of the night, and hear the noise. Very weak noise, but with a rhythm. She wasn’t wearing her anklets now, though. And off it goes into the next room, and it is one ‘O clock in the morning. What happened? She never used to come so late! Is anything wrong? Can things go wrong with ghosts? I do not know.

Then it occured to me that it maynot be her at all. Is there someone in the next room, a burgler? Wasn’t S talking about the burglaries and car-stereo thefts in the layout? Oh my! I snatch my mobile, and keep my fingers on the Call key, and sneak into the next room. Yeeehaaaaa.. No one. The next. No. Kitchen, No. Bathroom? She didn’t leave it open today, and noone is inside. Good. So it was her afterall.

I switch off the lights and fall to bed. My heart has quieted down, and I hear the noise again. Monsters under the bed? Can’t see any. Then who in the world is walking inside my house, without the anklets on?

Maybe she has a new friend. I think it was the other one playing with the plastic bag.

The bell for lunch rang, and we ran to the mess hall.

Oh! It’s that foul-smelling sambar yet again. Why in the world can’t they cut the vegetables a bit smaller, so it will be at least half cooked? And I hate cabbage.

I queue up with the rest, with my plate in hand. Tagore house has the mess duty today, and they are giving us the day’s wares. I do not like food. Ordinary, tasteless food. I eat to survive, always hoping somethingin my plate would turn into a juicy piece of fried fish.

I eat fast, put the rest into the overflowing wastebasket near the borewell, and wash my plate. That is when I first saw him. He was talking to some sixth standard boys. Not talking; he was begging. Begging for food. He was not old, not disabled, and neither was he in rags, but he was begging for food with a tired face. The boys called up the cook, who to us poor souls is the man who controls the food. And of course, he is a grown up.

“Give me something to eat”. The man pleads.
“I can’t. This is a school. And you are not allowed to be here”
“I am hungry.”
I feel lucky I had never known such hunger.
“I can’t. This is not my house. There are teachers here who will scold me. Go away.”
“A little bit. Some rice. Just some”
“No. Go away. I can’t. I will call someone.”

The cook goes back into the kitchen, we start to disperse, and the man walks away.

He goes and sits near the wastebasket, and reach into it.

It is not a very well kept secret that I have a temper.

Now what has temper got to do with Munnekolala overbridge? I say everything. There is this chicken neck bridge between me and my office. Every morning and evening I join a major chunck of the city’s workforce crossing the bridge inch by inch. No, not really.. I whizz past the bridge, almost.;)? That is why I start at 7.30 to the office every morning.

So, there is this bridge. And a single lane road on the left to Marathahalli. The right lane is two lanes and new. But only for about 100 meters. Then there is a roadblock where they are still building the bridge, and the right side also is just a single lane. Confusing? OK, let’s get this straight. There is a single left lane from Kundalahalli to Marathahalli. From Marathahalli to Kundalahalli, the road narrows in the middle to one lane, but otherwise you have a wide two lane road. So things should still work out, but slow, right? No way.
The people who should be in the left lane take the wide right lanes, and then they try to merge back into the left where the road narrows. They are competing at this point with the people who already are in the left lane, and the traffic from Marathahalli which should be in the right lane but cannot move since these people are blocking their road.? Now the rule-breakers expect the left laners to let them pass, so that there won’t be a traffic block. Cute, isn’t it?

Do I ever let them? No, not if I can help it. They had no busines being in the wrong side in the first place. They know they’ll have to go back to the left and they were breaking rules. I wonder why there is never a policeman to regulate the traffic at this place, where obviously people do as they please.

I try to avoid the bridge when it is crowded. But today I didn’t. I happily started at 8.30 and got into the slowest moving traffic I saw since yesterday evening. I take the left lane. I follow the row of assorted vehicles taking the left lane, and reach the point where everyone merges. We are moving, bumper to bumper, slow and steady and there are the guys in right trying to get in whenever there is a gap in traffic. Now there comes a bus from the other side, and a guy in an Accent decided he is merging into my lane, in front of me. And there is no gap. He closes in his car, dangerously close to mine, almost touching the door with his bonnet.
And he honks. I am gonna go next.
I honk back. No, you ain’t.

And he kept honking and kept driving and he tries to maneuoer his car around mine to get his ‘nose’ in front. The roadrage kicks in for both.? And when it does I am a devil.. (Some say I always am.Bah!). And it’s about the principle of the thing, you see. He was in error, and he can’t even wait now? So I kept driving without a care and hear a metallic clank sometime.

Not my car. So he probably hit the bus. Made my day.
Oh, and it was not a crash or anything. You know, the body gets a little dent kinda hitting.

I am waking up early next week. Definitely.

I once interviewed with Mindtree.

It was a pretty saturday. With birds singing and sun shining through the trees and all. And we, me and Bee, started out 2 hours early to reach the office.

Not our fault. Defintely. We were all for starting half an hour late, but the Boy made a snickering noise. “8.30! Have you ever seen the rush at Silk board at that time?” No Sir. eight o clock it is.

So we start out faithfully on eight(ok, maybe 8.10.)I drag her along as I need a navigator every time I venture outside the familiar home-office-home circuit. But as luck would have it, there comes a traffic junction. Huge junction with a flyover going above, and God knows how many roads. Now, noone mentioned this.

Where do we go? Where do we go? She yells at a biker nearby. “Excuse meeee… How do we go to Silk Board?”

This IS the Silk Board.

Of course. We asked just like that. Who doesn’t know that?

So this is Mindtree. Huge building. Not bad.

We drive in and there is the omnipresent security guy.

Vistor to MindTree. Where do I park?

“No. Outside.”

Hmm. It is a saturday. Dammit. Most of the parking slots are empty.

I am an invited visitor. Show me the MindTree parking.

The head of the security(or so I guess from the badge) is nearby and he asks. “Are you here for the interview?”

Yes.

“Then turn the car right now and park on the road.”

Ha. We turn the car. And park on the road side. Wounded ego and all that stuff. The building is not ours. It wasn’t a good idea to come after all. 30% hike. 40%? 50%? How much money is worth this? No ,letz go back. No. Afterall, we drove till here.

Bee sits in the car, I walk back. It is a loooong walk. And I see some ten to fifteen people, with files standing here and there. So, they are interviewing many more people today. Let me see…

I sign in and say I want to meet Miss HR. Go to the seventh floor. There is thankfully a lift I an not forbidden to use. Seventh floor and there is another security guy.

I want to meet Miss HR.

“Interview?”

Yes. I have an interview and she is the contact person.

“Oral or written?”

Hm. I don’t know.

Please let Miss HR know Me the Great is here for the interview.

“Oral or written?”
Can you please call her?

“Which discipline?”

Oh oh.

“Which discipline is the interview for you?” He is getting pissed off. So am I.

Fine. I guess I will just go back.

I press the lift’s button.
“No no. Miss HR hasn’t yet come.”

Great. Which discipline my foot.

He makes a call. A pretty young thing comes out — Miss HR isn’t in. Will you please wait till Miss HR comes. You can wait inside there.

No thanks. My friend is outside. I’ll wait with her.

Sure.

I go out, and tell the Girl the story.

These people seem to treat people real bad. Prolly treats the employees too like this. Remember our first company, where the BigBoss, little bosses and the securities ruled over us? I don’t wanna work here. Take meee hwome .

Or shall we go in? Both of us. Come. Let’s kick some ass, if opportunity presents itself.

We go in. The seventh-floor-security looks dazed. If he asks Bee to sign in, will we walk out? ‘Ma’am?’

She is with me.

He gives her the register to sign.

And thus it happened.

Couldn’t help comparing to one other interview where the HR sent me detailed instructions on how to get to the office, where to park my vehicle, and someone brought me tea while being interviewed.

I love being pampered.

“It is like smoking a joint. The cold? starts here. See right here. Here, you see. Do you think it is like smoking pot?”

“I have never smoked pot.”

? “No? Of course not. We used to. And it is like that. I can feel the coldness. It starts here. Exactly here.” He touches his head.

“Once you start smoking, you just go on laughing. You cannot stop. I will be sitting on the bed, grinning at the grinning others. And in the next bed, there will be two or three more, all grinning at each other. The same in every room. Every room the same.”?

He grins like a simpleton. “Brahmi is good for you. It improves the brain. Makes you more intelligent. Improves your memory. But more than anything, it calms you. Just like pot.”

“Does it calm you? Do you feel? cold when you eat it, starting exactly here? Do you feel elated? Do you not, do you not? No, dont eat that leaf.? Here, eat this. This is the best one. Don’t you feel the calm? Don’t you feel more alert?”"

No. I don’t.

Fourth Grade Malayalam text had a chapter named “Mayil”(Peacock). I remember it went something like “You might have seen this beautiful bird in zoos or in Subramaniah temples.” The teacher asked. “So who among you have seen peacocks?” A handful of us raised our hands. “So where did Sini see the peacock?” I said “In a Subramniah temple” . You just read it in the text book. You didnt see it in a temple. ” “I did. I went for a wedding, and there were these two peacocks in a cage in the temple” “Where?”.I don’t know. I am a 9 year old. I went with my Mother.

She smiled in that condescending way which brands you a liar.? I go home for lunch and tell my Mother the teacher didn’t believe me when I said I saw peacocks in a temple. Didn’t we see it when we went for Muthuechi’s wedding? Where exactly was it?

“It is Mahe Sri Krishna temple. Tell your teacher that first thing in the afternoon, ok? She’ll think you lied.”My mother insists.

She already did. I didn’t tell her in the afternoon.

“Hey, pass me that brochure.” He taps on my forearm.

I really don’t like being touched.

“See this, this is rather pretty , don’t u think?”. He commands my attention by brushing my upper arm.

Please don’t touch me.

“Hey, let’s go see that.”

I don’t like being touched.

“What do you think of this?”

I hate being touched.

How do they manage it so that you can never move away before the touching? How do they time it when you never expect it?

“Hey, don’t you think it is rather silly?”

Son of a bitch.

Move away. Move to the far end of the room. Stop thinking about this. He is your friend. He is not supposed to do this. Maybe he isn’t doing this.

Someone touches your shoulder.”Can I have some some water, please? ”

Don’t fucking touch me, you bastard.

?

All you have to do is say it out loud.
It doesn’t help at all when they make you realise it is all your fault.